Crystal Green
by Virodeil
Summary: Is a second chance at life always favourable? Harry did not really think so. But what could he do, anyway? It helps that he was beyond the ordinary sorts anywhere he ended up… does it not? Elfling! Harry. All revised. Nominated on MEFAwards 2010
1. Prologue

Author's Notes:

I think some warnings about this particular fiction would not be amiss:

The theme is cliché at first glance, I realised while writing. But trust me, it is not so. That said, this is not a story in which Harry joins the Fellowship of the Ring, has a romantic relationship with an Elf/Man/Dwarf/whoever else (slashy or no), or fights in the War of the Rings. I am exploring the idea of a second chance of childhood for him; but yes, the plotline may be spattered with violence and dare every once in a while. After all, even the Sorting Hat admits that Harry has the traits of all the Houses in Hogwarts. Nothing short of disaster would result from that, in all senses of the word.

The fiction will be rather short in terms of the number of chapters. I would like to think that the word count for each chapter is short too, but some people might still consider 3,000 words long… Well, this warning is rather tentative, at least for the word count part. I cannot expand the story much, even if I want to or there are plot bunnies hopping around in my head to help stretch it. I am conscious about the other neglected stories after all, you know. :sheepish:

I am not a native speaker of English. I am visually-impaired too, which makes me depend on the use of screen reader. That makes this story prone to mistakes – more often awkward than not. So, please, people, if you see grammatical, contextual and spelling mistakes, please inform me and I will try to fix them as soon as possible. I would like to think myself capable in writing English, but there is just so much a non-native speaker could achieve. Homophones, formatting and colour-coding are always a pain to tackle too, seeing that I can't do the usual spell-checking. (The screen reader would not read the underlined/coloured text.)

Should I put a disclaimer for this story? Dunno. It sounds a bit ridiculous, seeing that the site is clearly for fan fictions. But anyway, I had better said that the idea of Elfling! Harry is not my own. The details are mine, though; so please, be fair and tell me if you would like to borrow some.

Hmm. I hope I am not driving you away with the things I spouted out. All the same, I hope you will enjoy the ride. This is my second try of a crossover between Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings, but my first in the sub-genre. Your encouragement, opinions, and criticisms would be highly appreciated.

- Rey

Edit: Thank you for Walter Dash and malko050987 for their corrections!

**Prologue**

The festivities went for days on end in Hogwarts and every corner of the Great Britain, celebrating the second and final defeat of the Dark Lord – Voldemort. Death Eaters were hunted down and imprisoned or – in some cases – killed, and creatures with evil intentions were banished from the country.

However, people who were mourning were not only supporters of Voldemort. Those who had lost their friends and family members in the last year, or in the very-last battle on Hogwarts' grounds, also mourned the deaths of their loved ones.

One Harry Potter was not included in the former category. ((He was neither a party-goer nor an evil-hunter – not anymore.) But neither did he consider himself a part of the latter, given his being quite dazed; his mood was certainly not festive at all, and he felt too… empty… to mourn anyone right now. – He was currently lounging, exhausted in every aspect of himself, in his four-poster bed; the room would have been his dormitory room, had he attended his last year in the magical school. There was no one in sight. Hermione was with Ron in the Great Hall, consoling the red-haired – or at least trying to – on the lost of his brother Fred. The rest of his schoolmates were either dead, mourning, or celebrating in their own homes. Kreatcher, the house-elf he inheritted from his late godfather Sirius Black, was putting back order to the war-torn – almost literally – castle together with Hogwarts' house-elves… He was totally alone.

He should have been happy and proud. (He was the cause of Voldemort's downfall; the disarming spell from his stolen wand had clashed mid-way with the killing curse the Dark Lord had aimed at him, making the curse rebound and kill Voldemort instead.) He should have been out, comforting the mourners, or posing and answering questions (for publicity sake, if not for mere reaffirmation that the dreaded wizard who was the bane of Wizarding and Muggle Worlds this last half century was really dead). He should have—

His mouth opened in a wide yawn, and he slipped into slumber like a heavy rock plunking into the still depths of a lake. He had not bothered to change into pyjamas. (What he wore now was the travelling attire he had worn when battling against Voldemort and his Death Eaters.) He had ceased to think about himself and his surroundings, weary from the constant danger and expectation from everyone around him. He just wanted everything to… end, somehow.

Harry continued living in that manner for some time, despite his remaining friends' coaxing him to open up. It might be the best solution for him, in hindsight. – Apparently some people were beginning to suspect him as the next Dark Lord, while the others wanted to keep him in a hero pedestal or hord him for themselves. –

The goblins of Gringotts were neither, but they had their own brand of negative interest on him. If only he had not been so desperate as to trick a goblin into stealing Hufflepuff's Cup from Belatrix Lestrange's vault…

Well, it was the past, and a past as crucial as that could not be mended… unfortunately. – And it appeared that the present was also not mendable, because, the first – and last – time he tried to go into the white marble building of the Wizarding bank after the Last Battle, he was ambushed by battle-ready, ferocious warrior goblins. – The thought of his parents' fortune being horded by the greedy creatures contributed to his many sleepless nights in the Burrow, aside from myriad other jarring events he had been a part of. The money could have been donated to the Weasleys, or to the orphaned magical children or… – So many other purposes, and not falling to the possession of the undeserving goblins. His talk with Griphook about Gryffindor's sword some months ago brought a bitter taste to his mouth every time he reminisced about it.

Ron and Hermione were also impacted by the general opinion, since public knew that they always accompanied the boy-who-lived. Unlike Harry, though, the couple happily ignored the various treatments as they were tucked in their own little world. Ron had proposed to Hermione only some days after Voldemort's defeat, and they had spent the weeks afterwards planning for their wedding and… snogging each other. They were rarely seen without one another, as if they were glued together. – That made Harry feel lonesome, but he would never tell them, because he knew. They deserved their peace and happiness after most willingly accompanying him in every bitter turn in his life.

But a birthday was a birthday, and it was hard to maintain gloomy recollections when the day came in the Burrow for the messy-haired boy…

It was now July 31, 1998. The warm sunlight and chirping birds greeted Harry as he uncoiled himself and rolled to his back, stretching like a cat. He was eighteen years old now; and judging from the assortment of delicious smells of food from the kitchen below, Mrs. Weasley had prepared a special breakfast for this special day of his. (Above all, it was what had nudged him quickly to full awareness.)

That, and the banging on the door. He was not swift enough in reaching for his wand, though. A blurred form with frizzy hair tackled him, making him sprawl back on the bed. "Hermione…" Harry choked. The girl was pinning his chest.

Ron came in after her, in a much more sedate pace, grinning at him. "Happy birthday, mate," he chirped, not caring that his girlfriend was now at a compromising position atop Harry. "How's your night?"

Good, a small sarcastic voice in Harry's head would have said, but his logic won over. He settled for humming noncommittally while disentangling himself from Hermione in as gentle a manner as he could. Before Ron could fire another uncomfortable question, he shot back. "How was yours?"

Ron flushed red. Harry's eyebrows rose to his hairline and he snickered. Playful suspicion was written on his thin face and in his green eyes.

"I wasn't doing anything!" Ron blurted. Harry rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out.

They ended up chasing one another throughout the house in mock anger, still in pyjamas, Hermione's yell of "No running in the house!" ringing in their ears. But of course, no less than Mrs. Weasley could put a stop on the boys' antics, and so Hermione quickly exploited the knowledge to its full advantage.

It was two much-subdued boys – in posture but not in expression – who sat for breakfast this morning in the Weasleys' packed kitchen. All of the family were there; those who survived the recent war. Arthur Weasley was talking quietly with Bill and Charlie, their heads touching, on one end of the table. Percey was nervously playing with his porridge spoon, and beside him sat a gloomy George. Ginny and Fleur were also talking in a secretive manner one to another… – That spiked up Harry's suspicion that something was going on, something he was not a part of. His merry mood dampened.

Unknowingly, he imitated Percey – toying with the tableware closest to him. His face fell into a thoughtful expression. Everyone had behaved normally when he had firstly entered the kitchen. They had greeted him and wished him a happy birthday. Ironic that now they made him no more happy, he groused to himself as he forced a spoonful of mashed potatoes down his throat. He was unsettled.

But, if he would be honest to himself, the feeling had begun long before, when Hermione had tackled him flat to his bed. He had had a strange, unnerving thought that he might not get a next chance of being on the receiving end of Hermione's enthusiastic, heartfelt hugs and Ron's honest, sometimes-naïve comments. All the conspiratorial whispering around him just heightened the sense, not dulling it any. His gut feeling had never failed him before when survival was concerned, so…

"Oi, mate, watch out for your meal. See if there's a beetle or two in there." Ron tapped Harry's temple. The ruminating boy nearly spewed out his meal – whatever it was now – and glared irritatedly at his friend. He said nothing, though, and that worried Ron, much.

"What's wrong, Harry?" Hermione whispered softly. Her barely-moving lips were a mere inch from Harry's right ear, as she pretended to lean over to reach for the salt shaker. "You can tell us. Is it the press? The goblins? Those stupid fans of yours?"

"We have special presents for you, but you must tell us first what's bothering you," Ron said through the corner of his mouth, his blue eyes shining dimly with half-hearted humor. "Trust us, you'll like them very much. So now?"

Unfortunately, no measure of coaxing from his two best friends could bring Harry to confess what had been going on in his head. If he was to leave them forever, he thought, referring to the foreboding feeling he had been having this morning, then it was best to spend what time he had with them without them worrying about him. He pulled his thoughts forcefully from the hanging sense of doom over his head, then tried to enjoy the breakfast and the warm feeling of familiarity permiating the moddest and cluttered kitchen. He succeeded, in part.

The family gathered in the sitting-room after breakfast, watching Harry face his enormous pile of birthday presents. Mr. Weasley had confirmed to him that all of them were free of harmful and dark objects, since the Order had checked them beforehand, yet Harry was reluctant to approach the small mountain filling the rug before the fireplace any nearer than half a meter, which was actually the distance from the edge of it to the door. He had never gotten any worthy birthday gifts – or anything at all – from the Dursleys, and his gifts while in Hogwarts were only handful; not that he minded either. But now—

"Are… these all for me?" he stuttered in a quiet voice, as though the pile of presents would come alive and attack him if they were aroused from their slumber. (The small mountain looked certainly monstrous enough!)

"Well, I won't get jealous on you for this, Harry. Think on how long it'll take to unwrap everything!" Ron snickered; getting an efficient, stern reproach of "Ronald Weasley!" from his mother, sister and girlfriend for his cheekiness.

Harry gulped. "And no one would help me deal with them?" he confirmed. When everyone shook their heads, he stepped into the room like someone to his execusion.

As he had predicted, the gifts were all from his admirers. He sighed exasperatedly while repeatedly spelling off the wrappers and glancing at the gifts before passing them to anyone near. In the meantime, Ginny told him, while making a strange sound like an angry cat, that the Orders had disposed of quite a few strong love potions smuggled in bars of chocolate or other sweets. That brought a green tint to his face better and faster than when he had tasted a feces jellybean from Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans yesterday.

He got all sorts of things he liked and did not. He got a lifetime-free ice-cream certificate from Florien Fortescue, who had just come back from hiding, plus a cooling box – Wizarding version – which contained self-refilling chambers of every flavour of ice cream possible, complete with a scoop for each flavour and self-refilling cones. The owner of Honeydukes gave him a similar gift. (The note attached to the lid of the box said: "Happy birthday, Harry Potter! We hope you would enjoy this gift of ours. Just prick your finger and let a drop of your blood fall on the emblem of my shop on the lid, so the box can be activated. It only answers to you and no other. Touch the box, closed, with your bare skin and speak whatever you want in what quantity. Your request will be obliged soon unless you decided to rob me of all my stocks!") Then there was also a resizable trunk with a flat in it, complete with training, duelling and ritual rooms and a library, courtecy of the luggage shop in Diagon Alley, Flourish and Blotts Bookstore, and the Auror Department of the Ministry of Magic.

But he also got things like a crystal ball and a pack of the dizzying-scented mixture of herbs (from Sybill Trelawney), a package of dragon dunk and other myriad disgusting items (from Pansy Parkinson, which he quickly disposed of together with his vomit), and a set of dancing-and-singing-"Harry Potter my saviour" Wizarding action figures (from an anonymous sender).

He and his surrogate family spent the day opening and commenting about the gifts before stowing them away; broken only by lunch, snacks, and supper. The children feasted on the many packages of sweets Harry got for his birthday, and Ron was only – understandably – jealous on the Honeydukes and Fortescue self-refilling boxes. (Harry remedied that by tossing the certificate card to him, warning him against losing it, and telling him to spoil his future children with much ice cream. An early wedding gift, the green-eyed boy said, regretting it right afterwards because Hermione went into one of her longest tirades over him and Ron about spoiling children.)

The presents from his closest friends were last to be opened, having been set aside from the giant-sized pile of other gifts. Harry's heart felt like wanting to jump out from his mouth when he discovered the combined gift of Ron and Hermione: All hocruxes were there plus Gryffindor's sword and the Elder Wand, and they were in perfect shape except for the wand! (He brought it back to shape later in the day, when he was completely alone, with a single command of "Repair yourself.") The couple refused to tell him how they had managed to repair everything (or, in Ravenclaw's diadem's case, recovered). Hermione added a few books about borderline-dark spells – disguised as Quidditch books which no doubt had been Ron's idea – which her card said that he had to use it not to oppress people. (He threw her an incredulous look for that.)

Mrs. Weasley gave him her rare – according to her children – woven quilt, light-blue in colour and strangely soft to his touch. Mr. Weasley gifted him with a lock-opener knife Sirius had given him for Christmas in his fifth year, and also a large box of enchanted Muggle things – which his card told Harry sternly that the boy must open it in secret.

Fleur gave him a copy of her family's inherited recepies. And when he asked why she had gifted him with such precious item, blushingly told him that she had heard him cooking, and she would be honoured if he would try her family's recepies. Flushing nearly scarlet, he acquiesced to her wish and proceeded to Ginny's gift, which consisted of an animated mirror and bathing kit she made herself. When he looked up to thank his girlfriend, he saw that Ginny's face was redder than Fleur's and his. The sitting-room broke into rawcuss peals of laughter, then Mrs. Weasley pestered her about if the teens were courting each other, and if they had done it properly.

The most shocking of all, even above his best friends' joint gift, though, was what Bill, Charlie, George and Percey had attained for him: money from his vault… and more, since they confessed to him that they had discovered five other vaults connected to him (Sirius', the Blacks' ancestral vault, his parents' family vault, his father's ancestral vault, and Peverell's). They had gathered all in a trunk which was much larger in the inside, divided into huge chambers according to the number of the vaults. They had worked diligently side by side, it appeared; Bill with the vast knowledge of Gringotts, curse-breaking and goblin society, Charlie with his skill with magic, courage and talent in duelling, George with his clever ideas and pranks, and Percey with his knowledge and talent in beurocracy.

Harry was flabbergasted with the amount of money he owned (even after his fortune from the Black family had been reduced by half to support Andromeda Tongs and Teddy Lupin, according to Bill), but he ignored it as best as he could now in favour of the items left in vaults other than his trust vault, which he had used during the course of his years as a student. He, for once in his life, had a broad access to his past and his parents'. He wanted to dive into the photo albums and journals as soon as he found them, if not for Mrs. Weasley's pestering him to have supper and some sleep first. He managed to smuggle some journals and photo albums underneath his robe to the bedroom he shared with Ron, though. And his elation with them was what had kept Ron from commenting about his sudden wealth.

The journals kept Harry happy and occupied; that, and sessions of Quidditch playing, cooking, quality time with his best friends and Ginny, and reading other materials. But it did not stay long, unexpectedly.

Half of the Weasleys must go back to work (Percey, Charlie and Mr. Weasley), or were occupied again in their own worlds (George and the now-runaway-from-Gringotts Bill); and it was just three days after Harry's birthday. The Burrow was strangely quiet and empty, and the trio of young adults found themselves loitering aimlessly in the yard or the paddock the family used for Quidditch games.

It was worse for Harry; because, now that he was no longer distracted, the foreboding feeling came back to him, three folds. He was often caught brooding and staring into space, or treating Mrs. Weasley and his friends with more awareness than usual, as if it was the last time he could be with them. And on the fourth day, he decided that enough was enough. – He wrote a will based of what he knew on such matter. (He took a special, secret trip to the library in Hogwarts to research for safe spells to make sure the will was conducted.) Meanwhile, he convinced Kreatcher to work for the Weasleys as a family house-elf upon his departure. And at last, he dug up a small cave under the Weasleys' paddock – of course when his friends were not around – to store the things he intended for them, by the help of a teary Kreatcher.

On the eighth of August in the year 1998, Harry James Potter vanished without a trace, and with that also the rest of his belongings and money stored in his new trunk. The bed he had slept on during the night looked as if someone had left it without getting away from it, and it – alongside Harry himself – became a curiosity until much, much later.


	2. Chapter 1

Author's Notes:

(Squeak!) Firstly, I would like to thank those who have put this story in their communities, story alerts, and favourite story lists. Thank you also, especially, for those who have left me a review. (PureHFA, Novus Ars, and Vanime18431 (I wish you were logged in so I could reply…))You all warmed me inside out! I hope I can keep up with your expectations.

I forgot to say that this story will not be told from Harry's point of view only. I hope you don't mind. There are references to the Silmarillion, but I will try to make them kind of self-explanatory. I stick to the book version when it comes to the War of Rings… but it is still far away, anyway. Frodo is 33 and he sets out to Rivendell at 50, so there is about 20 years gap (Thanks to Walter Dash for informing me about this.). I intend to make use of that period, hense my warning of Harry's little to no involvement in the War of Rings. Perhaps that will change, but it is unthinkable as of now.

Enjoy the read!

- Rey

Chapter 1

It was very quiet and peaceful. The world had not woken up yet, since the sun had not hauled itself over the eastern horizon. The air was damp with undisturbed moisture – which would soon settle into bits of dew. It was cold, but not overly so.

Well, at least it was quiet and peaceful in the Shire, to the west of Middle-Earth. Just outside it, shadowy Rangers and their even-more-shadowy enemies lurked, watching for signs of weakness from each other to take advantage on and attack. It would seem like an absurd notion to the hobbits living in the lush, contented land, but in fact the whole continent was at war among its factions, reducing into a stalemate in some parts but still active in the others, and what happened on the borders of the Shire could be considered into the former category.

Bag End, a respectable home of two respectable – if rather mistrusted – bachelors, stood on the crest of a hill near the centre of the Shire. Despite what people said (and what the elder of the bachelors told them), they lived in tranquillity just like the others there. Today, though, there would be one event that rattled its occupants, ruining their peace.

Or, more precisely, a person.

And the said person was currently bundled up in a thick, warm light-blue blanket, laid motionless atop a plain, sturdy wooden trunk, positioned just by the round green door of the large aforementioned hobbit hole. There was no sign that the 'package' was actually a living being, save for the barely-imperceptible rise and fall roughly on the middle of it – which would tell an observer that the content of the bundle was breathing.

Thankfully, Frodo Baggins had a calm disposition; calm enough that he did not panic upon beholding the strange sight just outside the door of his home. He was garbed in travelling attire, as he had purposed to take a walk around Hobbiton, enjoying the not-night-not-morning air and the first rays of the yellow eye. Now it seemed like he had to postpone his jaunt and investigate the things left on his door before his uncle woke up.

No, not two things but one thing and… a baby? The bundle looked small enough to contain one. But then why did the child not move its limbs, even in sleep? Was it sick or exhausted?

More importantly, was it safe to approach the strange wooden box and the bundle? Must he wake his uncle and ask the older hobbit's opinion?

Ah, but Bilbo had had his fill of adventure. Now it was Frodo's time, although he did not leave the boundaries of the Shire; at least not yet. So, warily, the young hobbit padded to the box and the bundle, and peered closer at the latter, scrutinising the plain but undeniably good and warm material. He hesitated for only a moment before reaching out and caressing the fabric, marvelling at its texture and contour – which suggested that inside was indeed a baby. If only the weather was less cold, all the same, he would have thought to peek inside the bundle to confirm his suspicion.

Indeed, who would have left the baby on Bag End's door? Hobbits loved their many children, and anyway Frodo had never heard any story about abandoned children from Gandalf's assortment of wild, weird tales; fostered children, yes, but not abandoned ones.

Hmm. Should he foster this child? It would be a bit complicated, since he was barely out of his *(1)tweenhood, and Bilbo would be leaving the Shire for good on their birthday this year, but he could not in any way leave the baby to the mercy of nature or another, less responsible and friendly hobbit family. He also had enough fortune still to secure a good life for the child. It was his time to repay Bilbo: by fostering another needing soul.

With that decision in mind, he scooped the bundle into his arms and returned to the safety and comfort of Bag End. Inwardly, he thanked the long experience he had had while living in Brandy Hall taking care of his numerous younger cousins. He knew how to properly handle hobbit babies in the least.

Was it really a hobbit baby, though? It felt too light and too skinny for one… and too quiet, too. Was a baby of the Big Folk this small and fragile? But then, how and why had anyone of the Big Folk gone into the Shire? Except for Gandalf, of course. (Yet if the Wizard had indeed deposited the bundle before his door…)

Following an engrained habit, he set his precious burden down in his fluffy armchair in his bedroom, then made a beeline to the kitchen to warm his last stock of goat milk – which was only a little – and pour it into a small cup for the child, with a tiny bit of butter and honey added for more enticing taste. He could not do anything to the heavy-looking box, after all. He would need the help of his cousins to remove it into Bag End proper without too much noise, and they – or at least Merry and Fatty – would only be arriving later in the morning. But he could do something to discover who the baby was, and he would do so now. If the baby protested from being disturbed, he would already have the appropriate thing to bribe it from waking up anyone within hearing range. (He did not want to share this child with his uncle yet, and was not ready either for the old hobbit's usual questioning and gentle pestering.)

He put the cup and small spoon on his desk, then looked down on the unmoving bundle in the armchair behind it. An odd determination flooded his being, but also an ever-growing puzzlement. Little children should be waking up now, demanding food and small comforts before going back to their slumber. Should he wait for this baby to wake up and cry for attention? But how long would it be?

Biting his lower lip, he took the bundle and cradled it close to his chest so that he could sit in the armchair. He could just unwrap the blanket and slowly wake the baby up for its meal, he supposed, just like his first plan. And by the way, he had to know its gender before anything.

He pealed away the top of the cover carefully with one hand, and gasped.

An angelic face, beautiful and innocent but somehow unearthly, greeted his view. A pair of startling emerald eyes stared unseeingly up at him, just below a fringe of glossy raven hair – as smooth as the best silk when he caressed it. The baby's miniscule nostrils flared ever so slightly in a regular pattern, accompanying the sound of breathing barely audible in Frodo's keen ears, and it was the hobbit's only confirmation that the child in his arms was not worse than soundly asleep.

But the face…

It was certainly not a hobbit baby, and Frodo doubted that any child of the Big Folk could look so eerily beautiful. It left only one option, and Frodo cowered from the possibility.

How if word of this reached the wrong ears? What would the Elves say about this? Would they accuse him of child-kidnapping? Would there be someone who intended to harm the little one, or gain a dirty fortune from the baby?

Would the Elfling be taken from him?

His face scrunched up with consternation, Frodo hugged the little one tighter to his chest. He would welcome a constant companion very much, especially after Bilbo's inevitable departure in the autumn. He adored the Elven-kind, just like Bilbo did, and would be quite honoured to have one under his care.

Was he thinking selfishly? Was there an Elven family somewhere in the vast expanse of Middle-Earth who was mourning over the loss of their much-cherished offspring even now? Could he raise this little Elf as a proper Elf, and not a hobbit?

In the end, his concern over the family and well-being of the Elfling won over his selfishness, at least for a while. He sighed deeply and looked down again to the cherubic complexion of the slumbering baby, and smiled in a manner torn between sadness and happiness. "You are my family no matter what is going to happen, little one, but you are free to choose everything for yourself," he murmured.

And then, just as he spoke, the mesmerising emerald orbs came into focus, and the baby's eyelids blinked owlishly in incomprehention. The peace had instantly transformed into confusion and a bit of curiosity, but when the little one took stock of its surroundings, its eyes widened in fright and it squirmed, trying to break free both from the blanket and Frodo's arms. Its mouth opened in the tell-tale beginning of a loud squalling. Subsequently, that made the poor hobbit panic too, although for a slightly-different reason.

"Calm down, child. Calm down," he begged, almost whimpering in his own fear of the child's reaction to him; the milk was forgotten, sitting untouched in front of him on the desk. The child must have only seen his Elven kin, so seeing a hobbit right after it had woken up must scare the little one much. But how to soothe it in its current state? He had not expected such a quick – and negative – reaction from the baby, and he did not know enough Elvish to speak to an Elfling as young as this one also. But how if…

"The sun is hiding, the stars are blooming  
The creek flows gently, the wind sings softly  
You are home, child, you are safe and sound  
Kisses around and comforts abound

"The moon is rising, the stars are singing  
Fluffy is the pillow, and warm is the blanket  
They welcome you abed, child, they welcome you to rest  
Soft be your dreams and wide the moon beams…"

It worked.

The child was lulled back to a trance-like sleep in the end of the second verse, and Frodo began to rock the bundle back and forth slowly. He continued singing until the baby's breathing evened out, then he tiptoed to his bed and laid the precious burden on the middle of it, flanking the small cocoon with his pillows and boulsters for safety. (Hopefully, he thought, the Elfling would view it that way when it woke up. Oh how he would like to learn about its gender…)

An hour passed, and the vivid-green eyes blinked into focus again. This time, the owner of the deep, intense orbs did not react violently; but then again, he – for it was indeed a he – did not have a reason to, since there was no one in sight. For a long moment, he just lay wrapped in the thick blanket, examining the dirt ceiling with much bewilderment. A hand snaked out from the cocoon, and he suckled on his miniscule index and middle fingers distractedly.

Harry James Potter was confused. Where was he? Why was he bundled like a baby? Had he tangled on his blanket overnight in a particular manner so that now he was neatly wrapped in it? Perfect. And when had he started sucking his digits?

Why did he see like a baby, feel like a baby, and behave like a baby?

Why was the ceiling dirt? Where was Ron and his customary snoring? Where was Mrs. Weasley and her excellent cooking? Had Kreatcher kidnapped him? But why and where? And where was the house-elf now?

It had felt like a nightmare, when he had woken up for the first time in wherever this was. But now he was not so sure about it anymore. (And perhaps, it also had something to do with the strange sensations he got even while sleeping, that he was so attune with nature that he could hear the trees and brooks and creeks whispering and the wind singing. And *(2)someone full of light was always far, far above, somehow moving slowly across the sky…)

The fingers were drawn back and wiped on the blanket. "Kreatcher," Harry whispered; or rather, peeped. He was surprised on how small his voice had become, and how melodious it was. But more than anything, he was shocked that the house-elf did not answer him. Kreatcher was still his, so the house-elf must obey his direct order in the least. (The poor creature had done it to Sirius, although he had hated the latter. So why not now?) Was Kreatcher unable to obey his call? But then the house-elf must have died! But… But…

But what now?

Whimpering softly, he drew his knees up and curled around himself as much as he could within the bundle. – And only then he realised he was naked underneath the thick but soft wrapping.

Where was he? What had happened? What was happening now? This was not at all what he had imagined about departing the lifetime he knew! (He would rather have his original guess come true: death. This was too… bizarre, and frightening in its own right.)

He remembered reading an advanced divinition book once, just for fun and curiosity (since it was written by Sybill Trelawney's famous-seer great-grandmother Kasandra), and there found about alternate timelines and timetravel. – But all the same, there was no single theory in the book, from what he still remembered, which explained why he was now barely a toddler, and why his voice was rather girly and sing-song, and why he was completely starkers. Kasandra should have included that observation in her book. – Those select hapless individuals (like himself, if his suspicion struck true) should have been warned about some morphing done to their physical or mental properties! His voice could not be categorised in human nature now, and Merlin knew what else had been changed. Children had good voices, yes, but not something… other-wordly – for lack of a better word.

Had he somehow been put into the shell of another species, humanoid in shape but alien in nature?

His brain could not take more. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and stuffed his fist into his mouth to avoid crying out loud. His subsequent sleep felt more tiring than his awareness.

And when he opened his eyes again, the same childlike being from earlier greeted him with an uncertain smile. The being was accompanied by another, older one – apparently from the same race. They looked human, yet nonetheless Harry could sense something different from them. For one, even the older being looked just as small and round as a merry child. The twinkles in his eyes and the way he channelled his curious gaze gave the best impression of Professor Dumbledore! But without the half-moon glasses…

Speaking of glasses, Harry realised with a jolt in his stomach, why could he see perfectly – even more than normally, he supposed – without his glasses? Where were his glasses? He saw it nowhere.

The older being asked something, yet Harry could only guess from the tone of it, as the language was different from his. Old English? But only Hermione knew about it.

Hermione…

He recoiled back into himself and shivvered. What would his closest souls say about his odd, abrupt departure? How would their reaction be? They had had such a fun…

How many days had lapsed? Would Ron and Hermione hate him for leaving without notice? Ginny?

The last thought stung him like nothing else could. His Ginny… What would she think? They had just renewed their relationship, and it had been a promising look for a bright future so far. Now he abandoned her, regardless of his willingness. How would she react to this? Would she curse him and move on, or search for him tirelessly, or… or end her life? Somehow he found the first option much more palatable than the other two.

Now, what would his own reaction be to the disaster falling on top of him? Would he wallow in it and curse everything? Would he move on and forget his past? Would he Try to reconcile with everything, both the past and present, bit by bit?

Would people here understand his plight? He could not even speak their tongue! How to communicate with them? And now that his stomach exacerbate his misery by growling with hunger…

The sound of his body protesting the lack of nutrition seemed to be loud, because a split second later the older being reached out a hand, palm up, while the younger one scurried away, returning in a while with a cup of what smelled like warm buttered milk.

Harry, uncertainly, climbed out of his cocoon and sat up, bringing the cloth with him to conceal his nakedness. The motion elicited gasps from his hosts, and it made him rather confused and intrigued.

He gazed into their eyes, trying to gauge their intentions. To his surprise, he could read their surface emotions and thoughts, undisguised, just by looking into their eyes and examining what those orbs radiated. – Had he become a Legilimence somehow… overnight?

Finding his hosts to be kind and harmless, he reached out his own hand and took the larger one of the older being. He intended to shake the other's hand, but apparently his old host interpreted it as something different. He was lifted up, as his blanket fell down and pooled on the bed, and held in the old one's arms – like a baby!

Oh wait. He was in the form of a baby, was he not? Crap.

Hmm. But the embrace was surprisingly warm and sincere, and snuggling in the old one's embrace felt very cosy and… natural. It was so nice to for once enjoy small comforts without the embarrassment and pride of teenhood coming in the way. After all, he was now barely a year old, if the size of the childlike beings compared to his own was of any indication. The fragrant smell of some sort of tobacco leaf permiating the old one's clothes enticed him too, somehow.

And now he got the notion that he should not bother going around naked, since it was what little children liked to do… no?

He fought from gagging when the younger being spoonfed him the buttered milk. He could taste a little amount of butter and honey in it, but the milk was decidedly of a strange origin. What kind of animal produced it? He had better not think about it.

The younger one of his hosts asked him something, and yet again, he could not understand it. His host must have perceived his frustration, though. The mahogany-haired and chocolate-eyed being patted the top of his head warmly, and smiled without a trace of condemnation. It was that of unconditional love, if he dared say. (But unfortunately he dared not.)

Trying to be polite in turn, Harry pointed at himself and said slowly, "Harry." He then pointed at the younger being and threw the other a questioning stare. Thankfully, the gesture was interpreted as it should (although the addressee looked rather surprised and not a little unnerved). "Frodo," the person said, beaming. He then proceeded to point to behind Harry, to the person holding the child, and pronounced, "Bilbo."

Frodo and Bilbo; odd names, Harry thought. Could he be in an entirely-new community?

Or an entirely-new world?

He became upset again. And just as quickly as his mood darkened, Frodo snatched him from Bilbo and rocked him in his arms, crooning the lullaby he had heard before. Harry struggled at first, uncomfortable and insecure, but then the soft, peaceful song worked its 'magic' on him. He fell gently into a state of trance-like slumber he had experienced twice earlier, still aware of his surroundings but somehow detached from them. He knew that Frodo rewrapped him in his blanket and carried him out of the room, to the kitchen, and that Frodo made a sandwich with only a hand, eating it in like manner. But he was content not doing anything about it, thankful of being ignored for a time.

And after some time, he decided he liked his caretaker.

Footnotes

*(1) "Tweenhood" means "in the twenties." Hobbits consider themselves mature at age 33, not 18 or 21 like we do. (Well, and they do live longer than we do.) From what I glimpsed from reading the early chapters of The Fellowship of the Rings, I got the notion that "tweens" is like "teens" in our culture, customs and development. I do not know if the word "tweenhood" is canon or fanon, but I have a strong suspicion that it is the former. (Someone wants to search in the early chapters of Book 1? :))

*(2) Elves can sense the positions of the stars and Moon and Sun on the sky, and their respective progressions. I might attempt to explore this metaphysical territory later. But it is a canon fact, yes, and you can glimpse it in The Fellowship of the Ring when Legolas is sent to "fetch the Sun." More, though, is in an earlier work that I forget what the title is. (:sheepish:)


	3. Chapter 2

Author's Notes:

First of all, thank you very much for those who have put this story in their communities, story alerts, and favourite lists. Special thanks to those who have left me a review; I appreciate all the corrections, criticisms, encouragement, and compliments. To Novus Ars, Danteseth, PureHFA, Knave, Helena (Thanks for the correction about Teddy! Wish I could reply to you directly.), The Iza, 2008, Rune The Secret Child, Tara-Yo, Vanime18431 (Shrewd guesses! You can have an account without being an author by the way, I think.), WishingWanderer, Calileane, ShadowOkamiYokai, Walter Dash (Thanks for all your help and criticisms!), Obscure Stranger, and blackinky (Huh. I forgot about the ears. Well, I guess an Elf could be recognized through various means.) – Thanks!

Something to note about: "Harry" was in English, not Westron, although perhaps there is some connection since Bree's gate-keeper is also named "Harry." And here, the capitalised "Wizard" refers to Gandalf, not Harry.

Some parts of Prologue and Chapter 1 have been modified and added, by the way, thanks to the suggestions/corrections of Walter Dash and Helena. (And thanks to Walter Dash for an additional idea about certain speculations in this chapter!) So, if anyone is interested, they can check it up. Thanks for sticking up with me in the story so far. I feel accompanied and motivated. (And now I got the notion that this story might not be as bad as I had thought it would be.) Hope you will enjoy this new chapter.

- Rey

Chapter 2

One month had lapsed since the strange arrival of the even-stranger child, Frodo mused to himself, while his fingers absent-mindedly played with a small wooden pipe (filchered from his uncle Bilbo's possession, just for a day). He wondered what to do with Harry, as he could not hide the Elfling from anyone much longer. Even now Sam had sniffed the secret, given how rarely Frodo had spent time with his gardener friend lately. He had to hide Harry no matter, however, since the child was yet volatile and distrustful of strangers. It had taken some time for Harry not to flinch away when he approached, and even longer for the child to accept Bilbo – which, he knew with no small amount of sadness, had hurt the old hobbit terribly.

Despite everything, Harry seemed to be an apt learner, and the Elfling now had mastered rudimentary Westron through his own observations and Frodo's teaching. The toddler, now that he was more familiar with having Frodo around, revealed himself to be polite, albeit still shy and silent. (He acted more like an adult or a late tweenager, though, when he was upset or focusing himself on something.) He would return the hobbit's smile, let Frodo hug him, and allow Frodo to spoonfeed him with only little fuss.

One thing, though: He never let anyone near the box – his trunk of possessions, apparently – once he saw it. (Not long after the odd reunion between trunk and toddler, Harry took a polished length of elderwood stick from the wooden chest, and he always carried it around afterwards, also allowing nobody else to touch it.) He behaved unlike any hobbit children, and Frodo would bet (almost without hesitation) that his attitude was also rather alien among the younglings of the Big Folk. Were all Elflings so calm and obedient like this? If so, small wonder that the Elven-kind cherished their children – aside from the fact that they bred rarely.

Bilbo and he were looking forward to the next of Gandalf's irregular visits. They hoped the Wizard would have an answer for the enigma which was Harry, like he did for most others. It had been four years since the last time the Wizard had visited Bag End, and the hobbits missed him very much. Perhaps the presence of Harry could also persuade Gandalf to stay for a longer period of time in Hobbiton? The Wizard loved solving puzzles, after all, and Harry, in a way, was a puzzle – a big one at that.

And today Sam would be twenty-five years old. Frodo had been arranging a surprise party for the young, loyal gardener, and he had invited his closest friends to it. He had been thinking of exposing Harry to Sam today as part of the occasion, since Sam loved hearing about the Elves very much, but the wish clashed with how loose Sam's tongue could be. Frodo did not want the news to spread to the wrong receipiants. And anyway, Harry was not a prize or a display – a *(1)mathom.

Another problem was the presence of his cousins: Meriadoc (Merry) Brandybuck, Peregrin (Pippin) Took, Folco Boffin, and Fredegar (Fatty) Bolger. They had always run rampant in Bag End, since neither Bilbo nor Frodo had had any deep secrets to lock away. (Bilbo's Ring was either in the old hobbit's pocket, or in a drawer in his writing desk, and no one would search there.) How if they stumbled on Harry? Remembering his own fascination on the Elfling, Frodo winced. His cousins were usually more… expressive than he was in matters like this.

_Oh Gandalf, when will you come?`_

The question repeated in his mind almost like an enchantment of some sort, while his face soured with progressive moodiness (a feat on its own, given his general easy-going personality). From his perch on the doorsteps of his home, he kept staring down the path leading to it, hoping the Wizard would walk right to him at any time.

– And, as if summoned, Gandalf was there in the path when he shook off his reverie for the umpteenth time, riding slowly on a dappled mare. Behind him five very familiar hobbits jogged, grins on their young, impish faces.

Frodo's eyes were as wide and round as his mouth.

"Gandalf! Sam! Merry! Folco! Pippin! Fatty!" – He dashed down the steps and the path leading towards the main street, stopping directly before the startled mare. "How came you with such entourage, Gandalf? What made you come back here now? Bilbo and I have been missing you a lot!" he blurted, completely forgetting that he had left his prized pipe on the doorstep of Bag End.

Gandalf, for his part, chuckled affectionately. He dismounted and scooped Frodo up into his arms. Then, detaching himself from his alleged entourage, he led his mount to the meadow separating Bag End's gardens from the stream. "Don't wander too far, my girl," he said to the mare while releasing her from the tack and saddle-bags. Then he proceeded into Bag End proper, Frodo in his left arm and his travelling equipment in the other.

"How are you and your uncle, lad?" he asked the hobbit, who beamed at him but a little hesitantly. Having never elicited such reaction from him, the Wizard frowned. "I hope nothing is wrong? Because I intended to rest awhile here from my duties outside this excellent, peaceful land."

"Could we talk in somewhere private when you are rested from your trip, Gandalf?" Frodo asked softly after deliberating for a moment. He gnawed at his lower lip and looked pleadingly at the Wizard. The action made him look years younger, but at the same time older, than his actual age.

All of his strange actions drew Gandalf's attention (and his alarm), and thus the Wizard soon gave in to the plea. "I am going with you now, young lad. Your cousins and Sam can keep Bilbo company for a moment," said he, after depositing his belongings in the parlour. But he was baffled when the hobbit, having been set on his feet again, led him down the winding hallways to the private wing in the vast hobbit hole. He had never been led there except for the night's rest, and he had not mentioned anything about sleeping to the agitated Frodo so far.

Gandalf's curiosity was raised some more when Frodo halted before the hobbit's bedroom door. There was certainly something wrong going on in Bag End, then. Bilbo and his nephew had always invited their Wizard guest to the study, not their bedrooms. Was Frodo hiding something? What was he hiding that he did not want to tell his uncle, cousins or loyal gardener about it? Frodo (and hobbits in general, for that matter) was not used to hording secrets or secret things. Had something changed – for the worse, like almost everything else around Middle-earth?

Thus, when Frodo looked up into Gandalf's face with a hand on the doorknob, the Wizard returned his gaze with his typical penetrating stare he used when demanding answers. Frodo seemed to get the message, for the hobbit gulped visibly and swiftly returned his attention to the closed door before them.

"What are you hiding behind that door, Frodo?" Gandalf asked gently, contrary to his piercing stare. The hobbit let loose a shaky sigh, prompting him to lift a bushy eyebrow.

"One that I love, who may pose a danger to all," Frodo muttered. The second eyebrow joined the first high on Gandalf's wrinkly forehead. Frodo was not one to speak in riddles; it was – should be – Gandalf's 'territory'.

But thankfully, the hobbit's practical way was still intact. Instead of letting Gandalf guess or posing even more criptic statements, he turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.

There was nothing out of the ordinary in sight.

Or it was, at Gandalf's first sweeping glance around the tiny, neat room. On closer inspection, he noticed that the hobbit's bed was mussed. Frodo was a neat lad in everything he did and possessed…

Just when he was about to ask Frodo about the hobbit's strange behaviour so far, the mound of boulsters and pillows on the bed shifted, and a tiny head crowned by glossy raven hair peeked out of the crack in the middle of it.

An Elfling's, judging from the pointed ears the head boasted.

Gandalf gasped and clutched at the low door frame. His mind reeled. An Elfling. A very, very young Elfling, judging from how small the head was. There was no child that young currently in all the remaining Elven communities in Middle-earth as far as he knew, and he knew many things despite many people's attempts to hide them from him. So whose child was it? How had Frodo come across an Elf-baby while the hobbit had never left his cosy neighbourhood?

What should he do? Frodo apparently trusted him to find an ultimate solusion to this predicament, since the youngling was now tugging timidly at his robes to get his attention. What should he say? Should he spirit the little one away to one of the strongest Elven realms, despite the obvious love Frodo had for the child?

"I do not know what to do, my dear Frodo, if indeed the secret you wanted to show me was this child," he, at last, murmured. It was best to be honest now than to lie and reap the bad fruit later. He strode towards the bed and halted just beside it. He could see that the child was more than a little afraid and suspicious of him, so he tried to keep his distance. It was hard to do, since the innocence and vulnerability radiating off of the tiny being urged him to hug the little one and never let go. That was the way of little Elflings, or so he had ever been told.

Hmm. Elrond would welcome another youngling into his life. (The Half-Elf had lost his Estel to adulthood and his own fate and destiny decades ago.) Galadriel and Celeborn would also benefit from the presence of a child in their life, empty after Celebrian's marriage and her forced departure to the Undying Lands seventeen *(2)long years later. Thranduil would have someone other than his youngest son to fret about and keep close, a notion which Legolas would highly appreciate. – But anyhow, what would Frodo and the Elfling himself say about it?

Still pondering, Gandalf seated himself on the edge of the bed and sighed. Frodo did so at his other side, nearest to the child. The said child, meanwhile, regarded them with confused eyes, etched with vague wariness. He was clutching a smooth stick made of elder wood whose length was half his height. (The little one treated the stick like a weapon, Gandalf noted with amusement. The quirks of younglings…)

"How did he come under your care, Frodo?" the Wizard asked his host, pretending not to notice the Elfling creeping up to him, stick still in one hand.

"I found a wooden chest and a bundle last month, when I was about to stroll around Hobbiton. Nobody was up and about yet, since it was too early to do chores. I carried the bundle inside Bag End and, assuming that it was a hobbit baby, made a cup of goat milk for him," Frodo explained, almost blurting.

The child gaped with recognition, horror and revulsion on the phrase "goat milk." Gandalf fought to keep his neutral expression. Was it common for very young Elves to be that intelligent and comprehending? It might not be so in Aman, and he had rarely encountered Elflings in Middle-earth, and never this young; well, not in more than a thousand years too.

Frodo proceeded with his tale of the Elfling, whom he claimed was named *(3)Harí, while the subject of the story resumed his onward creeping to Gandalf. When Frodo reached the end of his recounting, so did the little child end his slow crawl – by depositing himself into the Wizard's lap. The action elicited a gasp of surprise from Frodo, though, so Gandalf guessed that Harí had never – or seldom – done it to anyone.

Neither of the two older individuals had a chance to comment on it, nevertheless, as the little one lifted his head and spoke clearly but haltingly to Gandalf, "You different." He was looking deep into the Wizard's soul with a shrewd, knowing gaze far older than his tiny frame suggested.

It made Gandalf very uncomfortable; and unnerved, too, he admitted to himself. He could recall the purity of young children of the Elves in Aman in his days as Olórin the Maia, which could penetrate every disguise and dismantle every deception. He had very little dealing with Elflings in Middle-earth, since they had always been horded closely by the communities they belonged to, but he doubted that they did not have the same quality their counterparts in the Undying Lands possessed. He just hoped his ruse would not be all uncovered before his task was finished. And with that, he stared pleadingly at the small being sitting with youthful innocence and confidence in his lap, while saying nothing otherwise.

Frodo, though, seemed less inclined to let the topic go – verbally. "Harí," he chid the child sharply. When the Elfling ignored the warning in the hobbit's usually-gentle tone, he reached out a hand, possibly to box the little one's ear. But Harí was much faster, and in just half a second the stick was pointed at Frodo from a safe distance, out of the range of even Gandalf's hand. The child, hunkering and shivering on a far corner of the bed, was visibly upset; and so was Frodo.

"What did I do?" the hobbit whispered in self-loathing. He stared at Harí with a pained expression on his face.

Gandalf looked at the low ceiling briefly and took a deep breath. He then wrapped an arm around Frodo and smiled sadly at the hobbit. "It seems that he had received a beating or more, either verbally or physically, some time before he was delivered to your care, Frodo," he said quietly.

They shared a grim, dubious look. Frodo appeared gobsmacked and even more upset than the Elfling was.

Gandalf let out an inward sigh. He had just complicated matters, not solving it. But indeed, there was just no way anyone short of orcs could heartlessly beat a child as small and frail as Harí. – But how could orcs get a hand on an Elfling?

"You could take a stroll in your garden for a while, Frodo, and play with your friends. I shall call you when I have sorted the problem with little Harí here. How is that?" he suggested after a moment's thought, his tone soothing.

Frodo nodded numbly and let out a shuddering breath. He wiped a hand over his eyes, then walked out of the room after throwing a last sorrowful glance at the now-tense Elf-child.

Then, at last, there was only the Wizard and the Elfling in the hobbit-sized bedroom.

"Would you come here, Harí? I shall not harm you, as long as I am aware of it," Gandalf coaxed the little one. He sighed when Harí shook his small head emphatically.

"Who hurt you before this, Harí?" He tried another tactic.

He did not expect any answer, at all. But come it did, in a soft whisper: "Kin. Kin me."

"Your… kin?" The Wizard's blood chilled and boiled at the same time. His mind was numb with incredulous shock. Relatives. It meant that out there, some Elves were responsible for the beating done to this child – barely a toddler. – No, no, it could not be true. He must be missing a piece of the puzzle. Elves loved their children beyond their worldly possessions; beyond themselves, even. Not even the Teleri in Alqualondë put their children's worth below their swanships.

*(4)But Celegorm's servants had thrown Dior's twin sons, Elwing's brothers, into the wild woods outside Menegroth to die…

But those vile murderers were not family, right? Not relatives…

But how if Harí was a Half-Elf, whose mother or father was from the race of Men? Ignorant Men did not take kindly to Elves now in the Third Age of the Sun. Perhaps the mother had died during childbirth, and the father had died protecting the family, thus leaving the child to the care of his Mannish living relatives somehow. – But there was no Mannish trace in Harí as far as the Wizard could tell, unlike Elrond and his children, or *(5)Mithrelas' direct descendents residing in Dol Amroth.

Gandalf shook his head. He gave up trying to process the mind-boggling idea mentally.

When he regained his awareness, however, another (thankfully much milder) shock awaited him: Harí was curled up next to him, looking up at him with sad, knowing eyes tinged with bemusement.

"So you now decided to join me here, eh, little one?" He attempted to tease the child, but the joke came out half-hearted. Nevertheless, the Elfling nodded, and apparently he took it seriously.

"Frodo where?" the child asked.

Gandalf shrugged. "Do you want me to deliver you to him?"

The Elfling scrunched up his face. "Not a letter!" he protested. The Wizard laughed, startled but happy.

"Of course not, little one," he said, pulling the child slowly, carefully into his lap and the circle of his arms. "You are a little Elf, and a good one at that. Hmm?"

Why did the child shrug? Was he denying his own race? Or maybe his worth? The puzzle which was Harí became more and more strange and shocking, and Gandalf was slowly but surely made frazzled by it.

Well, new mission, then: Find the child's relatives, milk every information from them, and – somehow – bring them to justice. Yes, that would do… when he had time.

But there was something he could do now, if only the child consented. He looked down at Harí, who was sucking his index and middle fingers, and smiled hopefully. "Would you allow me to see into your memories, Harí? Language seems to be a barrier between us." He just realised belatedly that his words might be too complicated for the child's range of vocabulary, and that not many people had any idea what he was talking about, much less a one-year-old toddler.

He was trying to find another way to convey his message when his eyes chanced a glance downwards. The Wizard did a double take, goggled, and gaped – in that order. Harí the Elfling was looking at him – or had been, more likely – and there was recognition in those emerald orbs, tempered by alarm and suspicion. "Stay, Harí, please," he blurted when the child was about to vacate his lap, apparently feeling threatened. "I do not mean you harm, nor do I intend to be nosy. I just supposed that learning language mind to mind would be benefitial for you, and I would greatly appreciate knowing about your background. If I might?" He was deeply curious about how Harí had caught on what he meant. Yet, ruefully, he realised that the explanation, if Harí deigned to give him one, would have been too complicated for the child's feeble grip on Westron to give out verbally.

How if he tried Sindarin, though? He had never spoken to the child in that tongue, and neither had Frodo. Wondering why he had never thought of it before, he switched language to the Grey tongue and asked, "Where are your parents, Harí?"

The question was met by a blank look.

Gandalf drew a deep, steadying breath and looked at anywhere but the little one sitting on his left thigh. Why did the child not understand any Sindarin? He had tried with a very simple sentence! Did it mean that Harí had been raised by non-Elves? Then which race and who – Men? Or perhaps this little one had been raised in Mirkwood and so known only the Silvan tongue spoken by the Nandor? Or perhaps the child did understand, but he did not know where his parents were? That was just a slightly-less-disturbing thought than the first.

But if the child consented to share his thoughts and memories with him…

Pasting a hopeful look – as sincerely as his injured ego would support him –, the Wizard repeated his request of merging their minds. The child looked at him sharply (making him rather daunted in the process, as the look was highly unnatural in a child's face), before finally, to Gandalf's great relief, he nodded in acquiescence. Trying to be as gentle as possible, the Wizard touch the child's mind with his own. Seeing that he had not practised it for over two thousand years, it was a feat to achieve. Fortunately, though, he managed it – with a toll on his mental strength.

`_Harí?_` he whispered awkwardly. A child's mind was much more fragile than an adult's; moreover, this child had ever suffered from neglect or even abuse. He had to be careful with the strength and volume of his voice, his tone, his words… And, more importantly, he must not force the child to reveal anything for any reason and in any way.

`_You are weird,_` came the reply. Gandalf sent him a mental flinch, but the Elfling was unrepentant. `_Who are you?_` Gandalf knew that the child did not mean to be intentionally rude, yet the truth was no more palatable: The little one was suspicious, wary of people baying for his blood. How could that be?

`_I shall tell you who I am, but you ought to tell me who you are too, honestly, with nothing left behind.`_

_`But you have to do the same to me.`_

_`Yes.`_

_`Deal, then.`_

The Wizard's stomach roiled unpleasantly. The way the child dealt with things in his own mind was far from childlike, far from what he exposed to the outside world. It was even more unsettling than what facts the Wizard had managed to gather about him so far.

With that notion, he hardened his resolve and opened his mind fully for the child's probing and questioning. He hoped that Harí would keep the knowledge of his identity a secret between them… just as he would do to the child's, although rather reluctantly.

Feelings, images, sounds, emotions, thoughts and impressions were exchanged between them without a word. In that way, the little Elf learnt that the old Man was actually an immortal being from a kind of angelic order who shaped, guarded and governed the world under the leadership of another order higher than theirs. He learnt about Olórin's – for indeed it was the Wizard's name in his truer form – mission in Middle-earth, the land he was currently in, and that it was the reason for the Maia's disguise as an elderly Man. But since there was a veil over Gandalf's earlier memories and powers in conjunction to his being one of the *(6)Emissaries sent to Middle-earth, the Wizard could not share more with him.

In turn, the disguised Maia learnt that Harí had actually belonged to the race of Men, somehow; a young adult, and not a child at all. – And he was not from this current timeframe, or perhaps even this world. He also found out the answer to the child's skittishness…

They stared mutely at each other after the exchange, reeling from the flood of shocking information. But there was a bond of understanding forming between them also, subtle at first but steadily growing. – Gandalf realised he was not alone in shouldering the weight of the world. The child now sitting on his knee had ever shouldered a very similar burden. Even if he could not share his with the child now, he felt lighter just knowing that someone could understand his current position in the world at large.

"I shall leave you to your rest, little one," he murmured softly after a long, companionable silence. "I shall plead exhaustion to our kind hosts and retire to my usual lodging in this lovely abode." He chuckled and smiled slightly. "Hobbits are marvellous beings, don't you think? They cannot be truly evil… Just like they cannot stay away from their numerous hearty meals for a long time."

The child giggled and nodded in agreement. The Wizard was pleased with his decision, although this had not been his real aim. After all, he got to hear an Elf-child giggle. He had missed that sound so much…

"See you later, then, little Harí. And oh, just a piece of advice from an objective point of view: You are given a second chance at childhood; please use it wisely." He kissed the top of the Elfling's head tenderly, before setting the said Elfling on the bed and rising to his feet. "Farewell, indeed, for now. If you behave, I shall show you some firework tricks, in imitation of the ones your twin friends performed. Perhaps then we can duplicate them for the delight of the hobbits in the big party this autumn?"

With the last conspiratorial wink at the child, the old man retreated from the room.

Harry were still contemplating his surroundings long after the Wizard was gone. This was Frodo's bedroom, and he had had no qualms sleeping in it together with the hobbit, but right now he needed a solitary space for himself. He had ventured around Bag End several times when neither of his hosts were with him (a precious rare chance), and he had found a perfect spot to sleep in: cool with the mixture of wooden and wine scents: one of the cellars.

Yes. That would do. No one would think to search for him there, and Gandalf could soothe Frodo's fears about his disappearance – hopefully. He needed the undisturbed quiet. The sharing they had done had rattled him more than he had been aware of.

he pushed his trunk out of the bedroom, straight to the cellar. Thankfully,, before this unexpected trip into another dimention, he had fitted the trunk with a permanent Featherlight Charm and wheels that could be extended just by a tap of a finger. He had thought of sleeping in his *(7)hidden flat instead of atop it, but thought better. After all, as unwilling as he was to be dragged here, this was an adventure, and adventures were meant to be enjoyed to the fullest.

Only a Gryffindor would think about it that way, and fortunately Harry was – or had been – one. That saved his sanity from the shock and panic of being thrust into this place without his consent.

Footnotes:

*(1) A mathom is something a hobbit got (usually a birthday gift) which rarely holds a significant value, but which he or she is reluctant to part with anyway. Hobbit holes were usually cluttered by such items, and mathoms were commonly passed around, acting as birthday gifts. (Remember that hobbits gave gifts at their birthdays instead of receiving them.) (Credit to this particular footnote goes to Walter Dash, who suggested it – and giving footnotes in the first place – to me.)

*(2) One "long year" is equal to 144 solar years. It is used by the Elves to measure time when they are not dealing with other races (aside from the Ainur) or immediate matters. (See the Appendices in The Return of the King.)

*(3) Frodo must presume the name "Harry" to be really an Elven name. (I just realised it when reediting the story.) Thus he would form the name in his mind as "Harí," and not "Harry," as it would fit their language better. And of course, Gandalf went with him. The pronunciation is more or less the same, though, except for the flat 'r' in "Harí." (Spanish 'r'?). (Credit to this wordplay to Dwimordene. – She came up with it and used it in her stories.)

*(4) Dior was the son of Beren and Luthien. Those of you who read the Fellowship of the Ring and the Appendices (especially pertaining to the lovelife of Arwen and Aragorn) would recognise who Luthien was, if not Beren also… But anyway, Luthien was the daughter of the Maia Melian and the Elf-king Elu Thingol of Doriath before and to the end of the First Age. Beren was a Man, and he had to win a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown in order to wed Luthien. (A parallel here with Aragorn's fate? *cough cough*) But returning to the point… Dior's sons referenced here, Elwing's (later Eärendil the Mariner's wife) brothers, were only small boys when those Elves chucked them into the woods. And there was still Shelob's mother there and her spawns… and perhaps Shelob herself. Vile enough in your minds, people? Well, anyhow, Gandalf was thinking about this in the chapter. (Ah yes, and the tale can be found in The Silmarillion, or in The Fellowship of the Ring.)

*(5) Mithrelas was Nimrodel's servant who married a Man. I am not really certain about the circumstances and the source (I think it is in People of Middle-earth or The Unfinished Tales.), but she inherited her beauty and grace to her descendents, the royalty of Dol Amroth, as referenced in The Return of the King.

*(6) As in the Wizard sent by the Powers to Middle-earth to indirectly contend with Sauron's encroachment upon the land. Emisseries as in "messengers of hope." And the Professor came up with the term himself. (I think it is in the Appendices of The Lord of the Rings.)

*(7) It is in the Prologue: One of the gifts Harry got on his birthday. A trunk with a complete flat inside.

Additional Note: Here, Harry is 18 months old, as opposed to his 18 years of age in the Wizarding World.


	4. Chapter 3

Author's Notes:

Thanks for those who have put this story in their communities, story alerts, and favourite stories lists! And thank you, especially, to those who have reviewed: Lina03, Tara-Yo, Jenni, SakuraWolf11, Vanime18431, deerang88, pixy, blackinky, Obscure Stranger, AmethystSiri, and Walter Dash. You are all awesome! You have lifted my spirit in many occasions by your reviews, and many of you have stuck with me since the prologue of this story. Thank you very much.

Once again, the capital W in "Wizard" means that it is an Istar, a disguised Maia (Thanks for Lala for the correction on the 'r'!) like Gandalf, a messenger sent by the Powers to aid Middle-earth in its struggles against Sauron; "wizard" would refer to Harry. Oh, and all dialogues here are in Westron unless indicated, and mind-speech are in… Well, it breaks any linguistic boundaries, I would guess.

Some people kept mentioning about the Powers in relation to Harry's mysterious arrival in Middle-earth and his identity. Umm, well, they (and the Maiar) will play a role in this story, but it might not be what you have expected so far, and certainly not about his arrival or identity. They are as ignorant as Harry and the others in those matters. They are not all-knowing, after all; that is the notion I caught while reading the Silmarillion (somewhat between the lines).

Thanks on your votes on where Harry should go. I indeed already had a place in mind, but nonetheless I would like to acknowledge your efforts in convincing me about the options. You will see how things go… I welcome guesses and suggestions, still. They are fun, in the least, and who knows if some of them will spark inspiration in me?

I understand that there may be several things in this chapter which are not self-sufficient in the way of references. I welcome questions about them and will try my best to answer them. I also introduce two original characters here. Please tell me if they – or particularly the original female character – look dangerously close to being a Mary-Sue or Gary-Stue. I have tried not to make them so, but… well… it is a rather subjective opinion.

Last but not least, I would like to suggest a bit of additional reading to whoever curious about the kind of music present right on the start of this chapter and wanting to delf deeper into it. The work is my own, but it was posted months ago. The title is We Speak through Music; you could look it up in my profile. And no, it is not a promotion for a boost in read or review count (or both). I am a curious person myself and usually search for related works done by an author if I am interested in something. I thought perhaps I had a kindred spirit or two in that regard…

- Rey

Chapter 3

The composition of melodies tumbled down like tiny waterfalls and tickling caresses of breeze. It embraced, spun and bounced. It danced, ran and hopped. It was as fresh as spring, as lively as summer, and as solemn as autumn. It wafted through Harry's – still new – sensitive ears and travelled sweetly into his lethargic brain; calming him, clencing him… waking him up.

He blinked, and blinked again. It was dark and cool in here; not particularly damp, but filled with a pleasant woody smell.

And wine? Yes, the sharp fragrance of it was unmistakable. He had been used to it by now, having had to endure countless victory parties centring on him defeating Voldemort. The children partied on butterbeer, the lower echelons in the Wizarding society tossed on Firewhisky, but their upper class, who could drown in their Galleons, swam in aged wine. Given the special occasion, however, the last was more than expected. The number of aged wine bottles and kegs being finally uncorked rivalled that of the usual butterbeer downed by the ravenous children, for once.

On that memory, his lips curled up into a bittersweet smile. He would have given almost whatever to escape those tideous parties over a month ago. But now he missed them more than ever – the normality of it all, the situations he knew and understood. Human nature, he supposed, was as fickle as Neazles.

Or Elven nature?

He blinked more rapidly. More recent memories began to catch up on him, including what he had experienced before going to sleep in… the cellar? Ah, so it was why he had been accompanied by the incessant aroma of wood and wine.

He sat up with difficulty. The eerie music drew to a gentle, fading closure. Someone with large but bent physique stepped into the darkened room and crouched before him.

No, not large, but Harry had become very small. It was still hard for him to assimilate himself with his new body and identity, despite the month he had spent in this form.

"Good day, Olórin," he greeted the disguised Maia softly in Valarin, his way of thanking the Wizard. After all, the old man had given him the knowledge of the language – and much more. It was intended to be used, right?

A sharp intake of breath was his immediate answer, then,

"Please do not use my name and language here, little one. I am homesick enough as is."

Harry cringed. He knew what it felt like, and he had just subjected his new friend to more torture in that area. "Sorry," he mumbled in Westron. He did not try to wiggle free when the old man picked him up, body and quilt, although he usually did, unused to the treatment. But his curious mind and sharp wit were still in tact; and, apparently, not quite apologetic. "Why did you sing me that, then? It was your special music, was it not, the one you sing without even opening your mouth?" He looked up into calm light-blue eyes with genuine interest and puzzlement.

"It was," the Wizard confirmed. "But do not expect me to do it again any time soon. It took a toll on me, so unless anyone is in a dire need of it, I shall not do it again; not in Middle-earth, at any rate."

"Then why did you sing it to me?" humbled, Harry murmured. He wound his miniscule arms around the Wizard's neck, as far as they would go, underneath the said Wizard's scraggly beard and hair, then lay his head on his upper arm. He had found earlier that the adults loved such gestures coming from him, so, in compensation, he would give Gandalf just that.

"Yesterday's exchange rattled you, did it not?" Gandalf smiled. "It did me, but I had a way out of it. Sleep is almost always a good solution for everything, little one, but it cannot solve this particular problem. You need some reflection until you are able to come to terms with what you have gained or witnessed in such situation… and you did not do it yesterday."

Harry smiled sheepishly, ruefully. "I forgot that. I guess now I am more a child than I am willing to admit," he said slowly, carefully, dredging up his memories for the knowledge on the languages Gandalf had given him.

"Well, you are," the Wizard said matter-of-factly, the beginning of a smile twitching his mustache. "No one will ever chide you for behaving like one, you know."

Neither was willing to get up and welcome the day, knowing that questions from the ever-inquisitive hobbits would soon barrage them. But at length Gandalf exhaled slowly and stood up, Harry in his arms. "Now let us go. Breakfast does not wait for us."

The damp echo of their laughter rang for a while in the cellar.

Sadly, their merriment did not last long. After breakfast (which they ate thankfully alone), they returned to the cellar, and Gandalf confronted Harry about bringing him to the safest Elven settlement closest from the Shire – where Harry was staying now. But Frodo had wormed his way into Harry's heart, and for that achievement – which very few people could manage – he would fight to remain in this place. It took Gandalf much persuation for him to open his mind to the possible consequences and consider them, and for a while they were at odds with each other.

In the end, however, Harry conceded to the Wizard's point. Frodo and the other hobbits were in jeopardy if word of his existence reached the wrong ears. Besides, he needed to know more about the Elves, whose race he now belonged to. Gandalf had admitted that he did not know everything there was to know about the Elves, and Harry had discerned the truth in his words. He even suggested that they should depart that very day, and Gandalf saw no objection to it. – His presence had been noted by Bilbo's and Frodo's young guests, and words travelled fast on hobbit tongues.

Nevertheless, as the hour of the half-prepared trip came nearer and nearer, he found himself curious – if not excited – about the prospect of meeting the Elves. He had reached an agreement with Gandalf that they would travel to Rivendell instead of the Grey Havens, although the Grey Havens lay closer to the Shire. Harry inwardly wished to know more about the Wizard along the journey, whilst Gandalf… The Wizard had his own reason about not choosing the Grey Havens, and refused to tell Harry about it – which suited him just well, for now.

Ah. And he thought he was free here from such fear and caution. How would he act on Gandalf's oft-repeated advice to try to be a child again, then?

Was he being bitter?

– Yes, sadly.

Bilbo approached the child he and his nephew had been hosting in the study some time late in the afternoon. Harí had gained his permission to use his study, and he was curious about what a toddler would do in a place like that. Practising runes? Reading? Drawing? Daydreaming? – Ah, but those were not the doings of a wee tod, were they? But perhaps Elven children were superior in this matter…

He did not expect that the Elfling would use his study as a bedroom.

The said Elfling was sprawled on the clean, empty desk, his eyes half-lidded and glassy, his head pillowed by a leather tome. He seemed to be in a restless sleep. The stick he always carried was by his side, positioned as if a weapon ready to be used to defend himself.

Bilbo sighed sadly. He wished everything had not turned out this way. Frodo would indeed need another constant companion for after he had left, and this little boy needed someone to loosen him up as well. The thought weighed heavily on his conscience, just like Gandalf's criptic pronouncement when the Wizard had stated that he would bring Harí away tonight, that the little one needed a good second childhood. – How would Harí enjoy his second chance at childhood if the situation never permitted him to do so?

"Poor, poor dear," he murmured as he step away and closed the door gently behind him.

Thus, he failed to see the 'poor dear' stirring and smiling wanly at the earthen ceiling.

Harry had faked his slumber. It was not because he hated the old hobbit, though. He did not quite know why, but he always felt tense and uneasy around Bilbo. It was as if Bilbo were evil, or that the hobbit brought something evil with him anywhere he went. An absurd notion, one that Gandalf and himself had been puzzling with no visible outcome during what he dubbed "sharing session" early in their first meeting yesterday.

He had been reading, in fact, when the hobbit had decided to check on him. The leather tome on which his head had rested was one of the numerous books he had brought from his own world; or rather, his own time, if Gandalf's theory that he had been deposited in a younger version of the earth he had known was to be believed. Fortunately for him, he had charmed his written possessions illegible to anyone other than himself or people he approved of, prior to his trip to this place – this version of the world he had known.

He did not want to risk the valuable information falling to the wrong hands, but he had to keep studying in order to prepare for anything ahead. They, after all, were in a war. He was used to living in such an environment, although that did not make him like it any. He knew, by personal experience, that wars never spared the innocent and weak only because they were so.

After Bilbo had visited him, though, he forwent reading and chose to explore Bag End instead, trying to remember everything about it to last him the time he was staying with the Elves. Gandalf had promised to deliver him back here to spend the summer with the hobbits, but three months were a long time to spend away from Frodo.

Night was approaching before he knew it, and it was time to bid his hosts farewell.

"Are you ready, little one?" Gandalf asked when Harry emerged from the cellar, towing his trunk (which towered over him) with a hand and gripping the Elder Wand with the other.

"I'm never ready, but let's just go," Harry mumbled. His grip on the Elder Wand tightened briefly, subconsciously seeking solace and protection from it. Bilbo and Frodo were arriving at the vestibule with packages in their arms, and the sight of them made him realise what he had to sacrifice in order for everyone to be safe. At this moment, he hated his fate more than ever.

Frodo knelt to his height and embraced him first. Harry returned it full-force, only relinquishing the hobbit when Frodo choked. "Sorry!" he squeaked at the blue-faced hobbit, whose laugh turned into a series of painful coughs. A wave of his wand restored the hobbit's lungs and ribs to normal, but now Frodo was a little wary of him. Still, it did not prevent the four of them to laugh at the misjudgement of strength he had committed. (But Harry stopped first, as he realised that he had just performed his first ever spell in Middle-earth, and it was a complicated one too. – He could have killed Frodo!)

"Be good and well, my lad. Give my greetings to Elrond as well. I ought to tell you all my adventure at another time," Bilbo said, with a sad smile, after their laughter had subsided fully. He knelt and gave Harry his own tight hug and murmured, "We shall miss you dearly."

Gandalf stowed the packages into the saddle-bags. They contained the replenishment of the Wizard's provisions, Bilbo said, plus some Old Toby weed – to Gandalf's delight. But one of the packages was for Harry only, and Frodo refused to say what it contained. He forbade Harry from looking into it when in company too. Therefore, reverently, he put it into his trunk, before shrinking the said trunk into the size of a matchbox for easier carriage with a tap of a finger on the lock. Bilbo and Frodo were awed at his impromptu magical performance, and, to Harry's annoyance, Gandalf looked fairly intrigued. He had a bad feeling that the Wizard would discuss his brand of magic unceasingly on their way to Rivendell.

The two oddballs exited Bag End alone after one more round of embraces. A sharp whistle from Gandalf brought his dappled mare galloping to them, forsaking the meadow beside Bag End. And, seeing the saddle-bags in the Wizard's arms, she pranced in excitement.

Harry giggled half-heartedly. "She's funny," he commented when Gandalf inquired. The Wizard, meanwhile, was busy tying the saddle-bags securely to her saddle. He only grunted in reply, but Harry could sense that he was smiling in mild amusement anyway.

He became much more serious when Gandalf perched him in the saddle. "I never learnt how to ride," he confessed sheepishly, still in careful, halting Westron.

Gandalf sighed exasperatedly. "Well, you ought to learn, then, but not in this trip. I shall only have to make sure that you do not fall off Lagoryn."

Harry stuck his tongue out at him. Gandalf growled, but his eyes were twinkling. "Behave, lad," he grumbled, then heaved himself up behind Harry. "Now say good-bye to Bag End. You won't see it till summer."

Feeling cheeky, Harry did just that, in a sing-song voice. The action earned him a light cuff on his right ear. It was worth the slight pain, though. The moment of levity lifted his heart from the gloomy atmosphere of farewell with the hobbits, and it seemed to work wonders with Gandalf too. They departed the vicinity with unrestrained smiles on their faces, which stayed until they had exited the Shire, when the half-moon made itself fully known on the eastern horizon.

The rhythmic rocking of Lagoryn the mare lulled Harry into a sense of peaceful security. The arms encircling his midriff and the warm body flushed against him added to that effect. Slumber tantelised him, tugging at his mind, coaxing it to leave the conscious world for a while. The night breeze, damp and chilly, brushed his face unprotected by the hood of his cloak, bringing the scent of woods and creeks and damp earth to his nose. The wonders of an unblemished earth…

Harí drifted into the trance-like state of Elven rest in no time at all. Above him, Gandalf smiled to himself. The little Elf was yet to recognise the *(1)Workings of *(2)Spirits like him. The magics the Men in the child's former world possessed were more to-the-point and swift in gaining result, yes, but they lacked subtlety and power.

The Wizard kept vigil until the *(3)vessel of his friend *(4)Tilion was high up in the sky. Right then, he heard a distant, distinctive laughter from the direction of a particular glen cresting a small hill in Woody End. The source of the laughter was approaching them, to his astonishment, instead of aiming for said glen as he was.

The laughter apparently woke Harí up, for the Elfling stirred and lifted his head from Gandalf's beard-covered chest at the same time.

"Where are we?" came a bleary mumble from the Elfling, as expected. Gandalf hushed him, just as they met with the ones who had been chortling: Elves.

Then,

"Greetings, Sinderáno!" chirped the leader of the company, Gildor Inglorion, in his native language – Quenya. The ellon, *(6)the only member of Finrod's doomed contingent who had survived the encounter with Sauron in the Isle of Werewolves, was particularly cheery tonight. Gandalf suspected that something was afoul. They had been joking about him, perhaps? It was not unheard of, after all, although it irked him to no end.

"Greetings to you too, Gildor, and a merry night for you lot, I see," he replied in amusement tinted with question, in Westron – for Harí's sake. The ellon's gleeful look turned sheepish for half a moment. Hah, the Wizard thought a little grumpily; his suspicion struck true.

"What are you guarding so closely, Mithrandir, if we might know?" an elleth by Gildor's side, Wenlach of Greenwood the Great, piped in in Sindarin. Soon the others' attention zoomed in on the bundle in the Wizard's lap, joining hers. Gandalf groaned inwardly. He would have been willing to trade this undesirable development of the situation with the lot's endless joking about him. He was too tired for a discussion more serious than where they would camp tonight.

Hmm. A camp. A merry fire, a gulp or two of miruvor, some two hours of nap, and maybe he would be ready… Yes, he could do with that.

"Ah, but answer me first, my friends: Where are you going? Where are you camping? I would prefer a talk over a warm fire and a cup of miruvor or two; after a good dinner, that is." – Well, he could be just as cheeky as they were, could he not? And why had they not gotten the hint to speak in Westron? Now twice had he replied them in Westron while they had used other languages…

The beautiful sing-song laughter burst out again. Gandalf smirked, his eyes glinting. The sudden tension in the bundle of leather-and-woolen cloak in his arms eased a little bit.

"We were hearing a horse trotting towards our little camp, so we decided to check out who was approaching our hideout," Gildor explained with an unreserved grin he never bestowed to the race of Men – or any stranger Elf, for that matter. (Gandalf cheered to himself. Finally – Westron!)

The Wizard chuckled and shook his head. "And your next destination after this peaceful country, nosy ones? Why so many scouts for this night's inspection too, by the way?" he prodded playfully.

"Elrond's abode," the small group of Elves chorused, followed by yet another bout of laughter – without any apparent reason, but no less merry. They kept up with Lagoryn's trotting pace easily, their feet light and fleet. Some of them burst into a song praising the *(5)Starqueen afterwards, while the others provided its hummed version as a musical background. Two of them had departed back to their camp as soon as Gandalf had agreed to stay the night with them, and now one of the pair returned to lead their unexpected guest to the comforts he had requested.

Inside the cloak and blanket, Harí now relaxed fully. Gandalf smiled to himself. The Elves had managed to cheer up the child without even knowing he was there. He was hopeful of the little one's acceptance of them, thus. And he did hope he was right in his judgement this time.

Footnotes:

*(1) Capital 'W' on "Workings" because it is comparable to the wards and spells witches and wizards in Harry's world performed. I wanted to separate them from other activities which could be gathered into the word "workings." (Credit to Philosopher at Large for the idea.)

*(2) I used Spirits here, and will use it in the next chapters, because I thought that Gandalf would not refer to himself as "Holy One" (the actual meaning of "Ainu," singular of "Ainur"). The word "Spirit" refer to either a Vala/Valië or a Maia, since they are actually from the same race; only one is more powerful than the other. If the word is not capitalised, then it takes the ordinary meaning as given in the context.

*(3) According to the Silmarillion, the moon (Moon) is the last flower of Tolperion the Silver Tree, steered by a Maia, which was launched to the sky as a kind of ship after the destruction of the Two Trees before the First Age. (See The Silmarillion for a full account.)

*(4) Tilion, according to the same source, is the Maia who guided the Moon, since he loved Tolperion – and other silver things – dearly. He was formerly a huntsman of the Vala Oromë.

*(5) Varda, or Elbereth. I was just using the literal translation here. (You could see the word being translated early in The Fellowship of the Ring.) No particular purpose. It just sounded… somehow unique to my ears. Plus, I am trying to keep Gandalf's point of view as free as possible from either Quenya or Sindarin versions on names and terms, seeing that I am confused which dialect to choose for him. (LOL)

*(6) According to The Silmarillion, Finrod and his entourage died in the Island of Werewolves trying to keep Beren from being eaten by Sauron's minions. In my version of things, someone else tailed them, but not too closely, hence his not being captured alongside the (other) Elves and Beren. The said someone was Gildor. – His tale might be told in a later chapter.

Translation: (All are in Sindarin, otherwise noted.)

ellon: male Elf  
elleth: female Elf  
Mithrandir: Grey Wanderer (literally), a Sindarin version of Gandalf's name  
Sinderáno: Quenya: Grey Wanderer (literally), an invention of mine


	5. Chapter 4

Author's Notes:

This was actually the last part of Chapter 3, but it was turning out to be too long, so I cut this last part and put it into a new chapter; a filler chapter. It is extended slightly from the original version too, to give the event some fleshing out. Hope you'll like it.

Oh, and a friend just told me that I did several names/terms wrongly… Let's see if I could do ought about it starting from here. And due to the revision, several things from the accompanying collection of drabbles – Laegnar: Moments in Life – will be changed also. I am trying to be as realistic as I can with this story. And I also got rid of the marks signalling the changes in languages. I hope you like this more…

But now enough with the blabbering. :) Enjoy!

Rey

**Chapter 4**

The wooded glen was just as the Wizard remembered: a patch of sweet-scented grass encircled by a stand of trees whose boughs were entangled above to form a natural dome. The skeletal living roof would not prevent them from being drenched in case of a heavy rain, but the small nook was peaceful and hidden from unwary eyes. (And judging from who lived around the area, that advantage was enough to guarantee an undisturbed stay.) As the Elves were bustling around in preparation of supper, the Wizard relieved his mare – a borrowed steed from his good friend, actually – from her burdens, and bade her to take a rest. Then he picked the silent-and-tense Harry up from beside the saddle-bags discarded on the grassy dirt, and made his way towards the twittering congregation of Elven wanderers.

Eldamir, a young ellon of one-thousand-and-five-hundred, brought an applewood tray ladened with a hearty meal to the Wizard once he was seated comfortably between the protruding roots of a tree. The ellon arrived just in time to overhear Gandalf murmuring, "Would you cancel it or stay that way, Harí?" to the bundle which never left his arms.

A long, slender stick materialised beside the bundle. A tiny hand grabbed it from underneath the bundle, and pointed one of its end at itself. "*(1)Fainait," the youth heard faintly under the chatter of his companions. Then a rush of energy left the immediate vicinity of the bundle, dicipating like broken clouds. He nearly dropped the tray.

"Mithrandir," he hissed at the unperturbed Wizard, tension in his voice.

"Ah, so you have found out. Gather your friends, then, young Eldamir, and let us talk."

Eldamir departed after laying the tray before the Wizard, with a wary glare at the disguised Maia. That did not mean that the order was ignored, nevertheless. In a short time, the glen fell into a complete silence, a solemn hush. The Elves were gathered in a half circle around Gandalf and the bundle now sitting in his lap.

"A Halfling child, Mithrandir?" Gildor exclaimed in surprise after a close scrutiny of the bundle. That startled his companions from their attentiveness and started up murmurs among them… as Gandalf had aimed for by his own calm silence.

"No. He is not. But you were right that he is a child," the Wizard said with a small smile. "Harí, would you?"

A slight rustle. The small figure in the bundle of cloak and blanket shifted restlessly. A pair of miniscule, thin, fair hands wormed their way out of the bundle. A flick of a wrist and the hood fell back, exposing a tiny face scrunched up in discomfort and consternation.

An Elven face. A very young Elfling. A little ellon with raven locks and green orbs brighter and deeper than the best emeralds dug up from the living earth.

"A child, Mithrandir? Try a baby next time," Wenlach squeaked in Sindarin, her face drawn and ashen.

"I was the only child here in Middle-earth at my time, and we heard no more born here since then." Eldamir, muttering in the same language, looked torn between awe, curiosity, and envy. "Where, Mithrandir? How?"

By then, the object of their goggling had already covered himself back up within the hooded cloak and blanket, and the stick had vanished again to who knew where. It elicited a collective sigh of disappointment from the shaken Elves.

"Where and how what, Eldamir?" Gandalf asked, still in his calm tone, and still sticking to Westron. "And please do not stare at him. No one likes to be stared at, you know, and particularly this little one."

"Insufferable," the addressee muttered under his breath, yet again in Sindarin, earning himself some reproachful stares from his companions – who were all older than he was. Then, seeming to gather his scattered wits, he reformed his question. "Where did you find him? How did you find him – in what circumstance? What is his name? Harí?"

Gandalf paused for a moment before saying, "I found him lost in the Shire. His parents were dead, and he had been hurt by… some people – And no, you are not to question the little one about it or jump to any conclusion. He has some gifts which I have decided to help hone. Besides, he was not safe in the Shire. Word about his presence would reach the Enemy sooner or later, and then… who knows what would happen."

The silence which ensued was deafening and distinctly hostile. Trying to alleviate it a bit, the Wizard continued, "He is called Harí, yes. I have been trying to find a name suitable for him in your tongue, but failed so far. Is there any idea from you, Fair Folk?"

It did not work. Or at least it did not, at first.

"Laegnar," Wenlach whispered after a long moment of the strenuous silence, in an Elven dialect long disused by most of the Elves. "Laegnar, for his bright eyes."

"A beautiful and powerful name, indeed," Gandalf concurred after a moment's hesitation – in which he tried to decipher what she had just said. He hoped his voice did not betray his relief. He had never thought he would see the day in which a Maia, albeit a disguised one, was daunted by a bunch of Firstborn; certainly not, too, when he was the aforementioned hapless Maia.

A round of concurrence followed his own, after Gildor had translated her words to the currently-used dialect of Sindarin. The attention of the Elves were then inexorably drawn back to Harí.

"Do you like it, Harí?" Gandalf murmured while nuzzling his long nose into the fold on the bundle, back in Westron. A yelp was Harí's first answer, followed by a squeaked protest in the same language: "Why should I have a new name?"

"Because it is just natural for an Elf to have an Elven name, little one," Gandalf laughed. Trust a child to break the ice with something trivial sounding. Harí was not quite a child, true, but he behaved like one now, and the Wizard believed that in time he would truly be a child, given the proper insentive.

"Would you decide soon if I gave you that enticing pile of raspberries over there?" he goded when the Elfling seemed to be too content with his silence. A moment after the words left his mouth, the said Elfling poked his head out from between the folds of his cloak and blanket, stretched out his hand, and snatched a couple raspberries from the tray in front of them in a swift motion. Gales of laughter followed the action.

"Naughty child!" Gandalf rumbled. He reached out a hand to cuff the child's ear, but Harí had shot out of his lap with surprising swiftness even for an Elf, his prize clutched safely in each hand and the garments left behind. When Eldamir inched closer to him, however, he scampered back to Gandalf and seated himself just out of the Wizard's arm range, looking terrified as though the older ellon were a monster.

The laughter subsided into another deafening silence.

"Who hurt him?" Gildor growled, slipping back into his native tongue in his distress, when the greatly-subdued Eldamir slunk back to his former place. The signs of abuse were clearly visible in the child's gestures and actions, Gandalf realised, now that they knew to find them. It almost physically hurt their eyes so used to the few happy, carefree Elflings they met in their long lives, he understood, but could not do anything about it. He hid the trembles racking the child's body and limbs back in the cloak and blanket, in compensation, as the said child nibbled the stolen raspberries in a weak pretence of stoicism.

But he could not hold up this charade for long. Harí had not recovered from Eldamir's small, innocent gesture even after a long moment had passed.

He let out a lengthy, noisy sigh. "I told you, Gildor, there is no use fretting about the past. Whoever the people are, they must have been far by now. Perhaps Harí came to the Shire on his own volition. Remember that he has his special gifts." That struck home more than the rate he was comfortable with, but he feared that lies would only anger the Wandering Company more and make them act rashly, as they must be inclined to make assumptions on the real situation. Harí's unspoken agreement with his decision – judging from the child's silence – boosted his confidence. Well, he did not want a raving band of powerful and deadly Elves wandering the countrysides in search of Harí's nonexistent tormenters, did he?

He continued, then, in a half-hearted playful tone, "Now, why don't you let an old Man have his meal? – Thank you for providing it, by the way. I always love those you prepare."

He clasped Harí close to his chest, then pealed the wrappings off of the wriggling child. "Now, little one, behave. Nobody here wishes to harm you." – More likely, they would harm him, if they perceived that he was a threat to the little one… He must be careful. Elves were so, so protective of their young offspring.

But he did not know about how to care for a little one; none of the *(2)Spirits knew, save perhaps Ossë and Uinen, and they were to content loitering along the coasts.

The task – and dilemma – was taken from him, though, almost literally, when Gildor enticed Harí out of his lap by dangling a small ripe strawberry in front of the little one's nose. The said little one crawled hesitantly away from him, and reached up a hand for the berry when he was sprawling comfortably on a cushion of fronds and leaves two paces away from the Wizard. Gildor had picked up a good spot, in that it was neither outside nor inside the group. Glances were stolen in the direction of the nibbling toddler, but it was to be expected, and Gildor glared some overlong stares away.

The ellon was good for raising the little boy, Gandalf thought, not without some sadness and a tinge of bitterness. So this was how it felt to have a child? The Spirits had missed much in the ways of joy, then. (And anyway, he did not remember much about his previous life in Aman. *(3)His memories had been blurred before coming to Middle-earth so that he would not be ever attracted to the West or use his knowledge for evil – or *(4)Spirit-type meddling – purposes.)

The night passed in a subdued atmosphere tinged with gloom. There was no song sung save for a series of gentle lullabies for Laegnar's sake, while the baby-child himself curled beside Mithrandir, sleeping soundly on a blanket-covered bed of fragrant ferns. There was also no stories or tidings passed between the Edhil and the Istro, for the said Istro was gently snoring, lying outstretched in the nook he had been seated throughout the meal.

After a while, all the same, Wenlach gathered her courage and crept up to Laegnar's side. She seated herself just an arm's length away from the tiny bundle, as she admired the baby in his slumber. His face was not marred by wariness or fear; he, for once, looked peaceful, like all children should. His half-lidded eyes moved occasionally, following whatever he saw in his dreamscape. She smiled. He was one of the very few people who managed to bring out her softer side, unwittingly or not.

Her family and few friends had despaired of ever convincing her to quit her adventureing across Ennerath and settle in somewhere safe. But upon looking at the peaceful visage of the silent, mostly-calm child, a longing touched at her heart that spoke of raising a family.

– But she would just observe and see, she said to herself, convinced herself. It was yet too soon for any decision. She had millennia spread before her to spend thinking. It would touch her life deeply, changing it, and she did not want to plunge head-first into this action, for once. – Besides, they were all yet affected by the shock and subsequent whirlwind of emotions after meeting a damaged Firstborn baby.

She jerked with surprise and horror when the child suddenly cried out weakly in a language foreign to her – *(5)"No, nott Sedrik, plíz no." He thrust his hands before his face, breaking half-way from his loose bundle, as if fending off a blow, then whimpered in fear and despair. "Ron, Phrediz dëd. Wíhavtú múvön." He squirmed, trying to get away from the cloak and blanket wrapping his small frame. "No, Chiní, plíz dónt lívmí híë."

Her chest tightened painfully, and her hands curled into fists. Her blood chilled. Was he dreaming about his tormenters? Some of his babbling sounded like names…

Would she be able to comfort him? She had always shirked away from youths in her whole life, and it had taken her many a century to really befriend Eldamir. Could she try, just this once, for Laegnar's sake? – And what of her earlier thought to raise a family someday?

Her hands uncurled and shot out on their own volition, even as she was still debating with herself. When she returned to reality, the struggling baby was already snuggled in her arms protectively, rocked back and forth in her tight embrace. – And she was crooning a wordless set of melodies to him, like her parents had done to her in her youth millennia ago. – She did not know whether to rejoice or feel afraid for this maternal instinct she had just found out.

And she did not know what to do with her lowly-sniggering companions also, when they caught her with Laegnar in her arms: whether to hit them or ignore them. If only they had witnessed how the little one had thrashed around and defended himself against an unseen foe… No, she had better be silent about his nightmare. Mithrandir had been correct in forbidding them to hunt down the child's tormenters and seek vengeance on them. Gildor was more or less calm-minded, and she liked to think herself calm enough in situations like this, but Eldamir and the others would have instantly gone berserk on the notion that Laegnar retained his injuries long after his escape from his tormenters. And the last thing they needed in this war was another *(6)kinslaying; or any other kind of pointless murder, for that matter.

Legnor subsided in a slow, gradual manner, but he did not succumb fully into her arms, as if not used to such gesture of affection. Wenlach frowned. She was not good with children, but her parents were, and she had never lacked hugs and kisses and pointless fussing in her youth – to her former chagrin. Her mind could not grip the idea that this baby might have never received any of those gestures in his life. That could only happen if — No, she would not think about it. She had promised herself that.

"You finally decided to be a mother, dear tomboy?" Gildor teased her gently (in the common Grey-Tongue), smiling, his midnight-blue eyes glittering with laughter. – And what did she see there? Hope? Ah, silly *(7)Lachenn. – She glared at him, thinking that she would scare Laegnar if she growled.

"May I hold him?" Eldamir wheedled. – Perhaps to bribe her, he used the *(8)Old-Silvan-Tongue she usually used when talking with her parents or their friends, which he knew a little bit, being born into an old Silvan village. Thus, she transfered her glare, two folds, at the youth.

He flinched away and raised his hands in a – hasty – placating gesture. No one dared offend Wenlach, or so people joked and whispered when they thought she was not around, since she was proficient with all sorts of weapons, including hand-to-hand fighting, and never hesitated to use it to her advantage. Well, at least that mistaken rumor worked to her advantage now, although it would irk and hurt her greatly in other times.

With yet another glare, she shooed her companions away and rose to her feet. Sometimes it was amusing, too, how those ellyn cowered before her – perceived or real – fury, even Gildor their unspoken leader.

Still cradling Laegnar against her bosom, she padded towards the edge of the glen, where it opened to the path leading to the main road through what the Halflings called "Woody End." Her wordless song never ceased, as she hoped to further soothe the baby in that way. (He seemed to favour it, somehow, rather than gestures of affection.) Her worded singing was usually a little awkward, as she was not used to doing it, and she was not about to attempt the lost course now.

Her voice faltered, nevertheless, when her eyes spied the hazy outline of the eastern sky. "Dawn is nearing," she croaked in the common Grey-Tongue, then blinked and grimaced slightly. She had not been aware of her dry, sore throat until it was too late. Gildor, rather expectedly, approached her with a cup of cool stream water in his hands; a peace offering, perhaps? They all knew he had been smitten with her for two ages, but she never considered him beyond a friend and companion – an annoying one at that, sometimes, but a friend nonetheless.

"Is your pack ready?" he asked in a low tone, when she took the cup with a hand and a grateful little smile. "I could hold him for a while if you need to pack."

"No, thank you. I think I shall manage it myself." Another little smile, a nod, and she vacated the spot in search of her pack – and belongings, and provisions, all strewn around the clearing. She did have her pride, and she was too comfortable now, holding the sleeping Laegnar close to her chest. Gildor could find another time to woo her…

Maybe she spoke too fast for something she had never attempted before, though, namely searching for all that she needed with only one hand and trying to balance a baby in the other. But anyway, in the end the said pack clung snugly and securely on her back, hanging from her narrow shoulders. And Laegnar was not disturbed during the packing, too. – And the baby slumbered away even when the company set out from the glen at last, just as the Sun rose slowly from her nightly resting place.

Maybe, after all, she could be a mother figure?

Footnotes:

*(1) "Finite," the spell to end nearly all other easy to medium spells. Harry only knows about working magic in this way, although maybe later he will learn other forms… Who knows? It is too glaringly obvious for any good use, anyway, judging from Eldamir's perception of it…

*(2) The Ainur. They indeed have spouses, but they cannot have children, or so Professor Tolkien later said… But in here, I made Ossë and Uinen have one. AU. You might read about it later in this story… Dunno.

*(3) Referenced briefly in – if I am not mistaken – The Return of the King, when Gandalf is talking about his many names. It is the reason I revised his personality a bit. I missed that reference before!

*(4) Umm. I meant meddling in the mental and metaphysical ways… He can only meddle in physical ways here, and a bit of indirect mental way now, can he not? LOL

*(5) I followed Dwimordene's footsteps here in translating words in English to what it might sound in Sindarin/other languages. If you can't figure out what Harry said, please contact me via review/PM/E-mail/online messenger and I will tell you.

*(6) The elves view murder between Elves as the most heinous act. Battle between Elves is totally unacceptable, therefore. And there were three of them as recorded by The Silmarillion, labeled by sequence and battlefield. (For more information, please read the book.) My conjecture on the term "kinslaying" itself is that Elves breed rarely, thus a person that one kills may well be his or her kin on some degree. And on why Elves abhor it: because they have a strong sense of hróa (body) and fëa (spirit) and might acutely realize it when they take other Elves' lives. (I would imagine it would be a horribly, morbidly intimate moment.)

*(7) "Ñoldo." "Deep-Elf." It would be awkward if I used "Ñoldo" here, since her point of view is in Sindarin. (The words "Ñoldo," "Sindarin," "Quenya," etc are in Quenya, not Sindarin like people use in Middle-earth.)

*(8) The first language, from which Quenya and Sindarin and Silvan sprung. The Eldarin tongue, which was spoken by the first Elves in Cuiviénen – the Waters of Awakening. I believe some exclusive communities would still speak in that language, when they're set apart from civilisations, just like what happen in our own world. Sadly, I can only try my hand on deduction when it comes to the usage of that language here. I apologise in advance for errors.

Translation: (all are Sindarin/Eldarin)

Edhil: Elves (plural)  
ellyn: male-Elves (plural)  
Ennorath: Middle-earth  
Istro: Wizard (singular), in the old form of Sindarin (Eldarin?)  
Laegnar: (sharp) Green Flame, in the Old Elven Tongue.

Additional Note:

Wenlach: I made her slightly different here. I wanted to set her aside, indeed, but I did it in the wrong way. She resembled more a Secondborn woman, not Firstborn. Now I tweaked her according to the commonly-practiced customes and culture among the Elves. (But not too close to what is told in Lores and Customs of the Eldar, by the way, since it deals more with the Ñoldorin society.) I hope she doesn't look like a Mary-Sue still? I would greatly appreciate your feedback in this…

Gandalf: As I said in one of the footnotes, I didn't really follow canon, it turned out, when writing about him. I deviate from canon in interpretation sometimes, but this time it was really unintentional. (What Professor Tolkien wrote about him in The Lord of the Rings really makes sense, so why change it?) I hope his character is rounder now. I realised it was a bit too flat…


	6. Chapter 5

Author's Notes:

Thank you for waiting! And I am truly glad that your enthusiasm have not wained so far. I hope this story will continue to entertain you. I am warning you now, though, that it becomes harder the further we progress through it. Updates may be slow in coming, especially since I have exhausted my store of chapters. (Yes, shamefully, I have not managed anything much about Chapter 5.) So, please, people, be patient. I dearly hope for your support as well…

Thank you very much for those who have put this story in their communities, favourite story lists, and story alert lists. And no, I am not doing this out of obligation or habit in every chapter, but out of gratitude for your enthusiasm, which keeps me writing and striving to give my best for you and myself. Special (really, really special) for those who have reviewed: Tara-Yo, Azure the Dragonlady, Pixy, Jenni, AmethystSiri, Blackinky, Vanime18431, Allen Pitt, SakuraWolf11, yamiyugi23, Stelmaria, Mefrancene, Basill, and Gaaralovessakuraforever. You warm my heart and make me feel special. :) I enjoyed discussing the story with some of you who posed questions, and I will enjoy it too if one do so now. ;)

Dialogues here are Sindarin. I will inform you in later chapters if it changes. But given how Harry will blend more with the Elves, Sindarin will be used more often than not. He still feels like a Man and a man – a Secondborn and an adult – so far, but that might change later, gradually. Have no fear that his studies will result in his joining the Fellowship, though. Elrond would freak out. *grin* But seriously, his studies, as he said himself, were born out of habit and paranoia. He is not really a child yet in his heart, and neither an Elf.

Terms (and sometimes names) will change alongside the point of views, by the way, according to the person's language. And unless Harry is in contact with Men (or undisguised Ainur), the terms "man," "woman," "girl," "boy" etc will point towards Elves, not Men. It will be noted accordingly if the situation changes.

That said, enjoy!

- Rey

Chapter 5

Harry woke up to his body being too warm. He found himself being cocooned in a blanket – his light-blue quilt – from head to toe. And that made him rather claustrophobic, so he wiggled, conveying the need to be released from the confining thing. The strong hold around him tightened in reply, though, so he moaned in protest. (He had long ago trained himself out of crying out loud or weeping, in any situation.)

"Child, we need to reach Bree-land by this night," a feminine voice admonished him. Harry jumped inwardly in surprise. Who was she? He had never met any woman during his stay in Middle-Earth. The hobbits were all male, and then there was Gandalf – Ah, but there was a female in the company of Elves they had come across yesterday night.

Was it yesterday night? What time was it? He could not even use his nose to predict it, because it was pointed towards a patch of his confiner and his holder's clothing, not the open air.

How had he ended up being carried by the woman in the company? Where was Gandalf? Away on some business of his own? Wizards here…

Hmm. On further notice, the loping grace of his holder was smoother than Lagoryn's trotting pace. He would have enjoyed this ride if only he was not feeling so warm.

Too warm.

"Hot!" he squeaked in frustration. "Need air!"

That did it. The woman was startled, nearly losing her hold around him. Harry made use of the momentary distraction by climbing out of his cocoon and curling his hands around his holder's neck for better anchoring. – Ah, the caress of cool, fresh air… He sighed, which turned out almost like a coo (to his brief consternation), then put his head on her shoulder. The air stung his face a bit, but it was nothing he could not cope with.

Melodious laughter filled the air around them. Harry jerked upright in surprise. He had been too preoccupied and missed noticing how the other Elves were clustered behind the woman. But he could sense some measure of awkwardness – and probably surprise as well – in the seemingly-merry laughter… Why so? What had caused it?

"You still have much to learn, Wenlach," someone said gently when the rich laughter had subsided into a few chuckles. "If a baby wiggles when confined, it means he is uncomfortable. Look how flushed his face is."

Harry could feel his holder's irritation and burning shame. He prayed that the man would not stoke the potential fury into a whole new level. He might be in the line of fire if so—

And it was not the time for selfless actions, his Slytherin side said.

Thankfully he did not have to forsake his comfortable perch to save himself, since the man wisely kept his mouth shut after that. His holder resorted to huffing in indignation but said nothing otherwise to what she might perceive as a patronising advice. She busied herself fussing over Harry after a moment's pause, covering his body up to his neck with the quilt, warding him from the chilly spring breeze. Harry was grateful for that. For one, now he had his head outside the quilt – as it ever should be, a small voice in him groused. He could look around if he would, or continue sleeping.

Come to think of it again, it was rather strange that he spent much time sleeping now that he was no more than a little child. Gandalf had conveyed to him during their exchange of knowledge and memories that he was equal to an infant in the eyes of the Elves, indeed, but the idea was too bizarre for him to understand. Or did he only not want to understand, to accept the fact that he was no more than a defenceless baby in this war-torn world? Was it not a good thing, though, that he was no longer expected to act on behalf of others, to defend those who put a high hope in him (who abandoned him on the slightest nudge from the vile press)?

"It looks like it will snow soon," another in the company, positioned farther towards the back of the fast-moving procession, commented in a resigned manner. Harry drew out a mental breath of relief. He was thankful for the distraction the man had unwittingly given him. He had been afraid that he would soon bawl in sheer frustration at his own current situation and condition if left to his introspection any longer.

Carefully, so as not to jeopardise his perch in his holder's arms (and her possible wrath), he tilted his head up and scrutinised the pale early-spring sky. The new day seemed to be just getting started, since flocks of birds were flying away from their nests in the trees flanking the road to begin the day's foraging. Then he noticed that the sky was not naturally pale. The man had been right. Thick white clouds hung above their heads, stretching out from horizon to horizon. It would not have looked so threatening if only they were in the summer. This was early spring, and it was prone to snowing at inopportune moments… like now. He half-hoped that it would not be a snowstorm, but knowing his pathetic luck, a blizzard was inevitable.

The wind became progressively damper and colder. The company halted and gathered on the roadside to partake on a gulp of water and a bite of some kind of wafer called lembas. (A kind of Elven waybread, the wafer was deceptively thin but very fulfilling.) Harry's holder, who used the respite to introduce herself personally to him as Wenlach from Greenwood forest, murmured about getting on the road again before the storm, but never aloud.

She got her wish almost right away, anyhow. The company started on their journey again, now shrouded in cloaks they had fished out from their packs. – Harry was confused but intrigued at the same time with this peculiarity. He knew why he had to end up being bundled in his cloak and blanket again; little children were susceptible to extreme weathers, no matter from which race they were. But the grown-ups?

"Why?" he asked Wenlach while tugging at the edge of his cocoon for emphasis, just as they resumed fast-walking.

"My parents told me that little ones are prone to bad weathers," the woman muttered, blushing. She made a point to ignore him afterwards. Harry glared, baffled and a little hurt. (He supposed he had been spoiled too much while staying with the hobbits. This gesture would not have deterred him in his own world.)

Meeting a dead end in regard to Wenlach, he redirected his attention at other Elves in the company. Meanwhile, he quashed down the feelings and emotions associated with the incident, saying to himself that he was getting too weak and clingy.

"Why?" He pointed a finger over his holder's shoulder at the cloak of the man once again positioned behind Wenlach. He was really curious, and he refused to be stumped in his little quest to know why grown-up Elves needed cloaks to brave through a snowstorm.

The man (Gildor, he reckoned from yesterday's events) laughed merrily, contrary to Wenlach's sudden moodiness. "We are not that good against the elements while being in the open, little one. It is true that we have better endurance in unfavourable weathers and climates than Men, but we are still slightly susceptible to the extreme ones. Don't you think a big snowstorm in the open like this is an extreme point?" A dark look passed over his eyes on the mention of extreme weathers, as if he was recalling something horrible from his past that still haunted him even until now, but he made his voice light and cheery for Harry's sake.

Harry promised to himself that he would not bring up the matter again to Gildor, or in the man's range of hearing. Nodding shortly, he lay his head on Wenlach's shoulder and curled up in his cocoon. – All the same, he could not help thinking about extreme weathers that had ever terrified such a strong Elf as Gildor.

"Do not scare him, Gildor," Wenlach grumbled from before the man. She never once stayed or slowed her pace, or glanced back at the addressee. But Harry peeked out over her shoulder again, wanting to see how Gildor would react.

The said addressee only rolled his eyes, though. Harry giggled half-heartedly, sensing playful irritation coming off of the man. (Perhaps Gildor had recovered? It was like he had been when talking about his parents.) Then, with a contented sigh, he again retracted his head completely from Wenlach's shoulder (slowly so that he would disturb neither her pace nor her posture) and snuggled more comfortably in her arms, burying his head into her chest.

Gildor had recovered. And there was nothing he could do otherwise about the weather except waiting, like the others, and the scenery was too boringly unchanging to attract his attention. The birds had returned to their fragile sanctuaries, far earlier than it should have been. He had spotted no big animal along the way, too. (But, on second thought, if the said animals were wolves or their warped brethren, like in the memories Gandalf had shared with him, then he was glad that they had gone so far unaccompanied.)

They did not stop for meal. The chance of respite, entirely too brief (at least in Harry's reckoning, in the measure of his former kind), was always used only to relieve themselves, or to drink some sort of energising wine which Gildar said was called miruvor. Harry, used to being starved while at the Dursleys, ignored the emptiness in his stomach which gnawed at him past noon. Besides, there was something more worrying, namely the ever-thickening clouds. Now it looked as if dusk had fallen early, although he could sense the sun up there on its slow journey westward, like he had always before while in this world. The wind blew more harshly and bitterly, whistling into their ears and flapping their cloaks rudely. If the moving air had soul, he thought, then it would have been bristling right now, like a cat about to fight.

It did not help that now, in his changed state, he could acutely sense how the clouds were bearing down on them, stifling them. – And perhaps it was what made the others restless?

Gildor ran past Wenlach when the wind did not seem to lessen. Two more men joined him, creating a kind of weak barrier against the invisible assault. Wenlach grumbled about the treatment, but her protestation ceased instantly when Gildor looked back and pointed sharply at Harry (who was again peeking out of his cocoon to view the weather) with his index finger.

Harry frowned. He did not want to be a burden or a discomfort. He wanted to tell them that, but he was sure it would just fall on deaf ears (provided that their hearing had not been initially deafened by the vicious wind).

Now was not the right time, too, he thought, as the Elves seemed somehow frazzled. – From what, though? He knew from Gandalf that Elves rarely feared anything; their limit of endurance was much higher than Men, and they were stronger in nearly all aspects. He had experienced snowstorms several times in his whole life – his whole past life, at least. They had been bad, but not to be fretted about. At the Dursleys, even if he was not let into the house during one (which had happened several times before his eleventh birthday), he could always huddle in the side porch behind the skeletal barricade of chairs to avoid the worst of the storm: the bone-freezing, violent wind. (Of course, then Aunt Petunia would scold him severely and thrust twice the list of chores at him, but the scolding came only after his own self-preservation; always.) Then what did the Elves have to fear from the impending storm? Was it the threat of wolves? But wolves would not venture out when it was storming, would they?

Where was Gandalf, again? The hoofbeats of Lagoryn had been absent all day. Had the old man been scouting ahead? But then why had he not come back at least once to report to the bulk of the company about the state of the road they were to take? At least in that way their group would not be divided during the blizzard; it was a small comfort to be had, but a comfort nonetheless.

"Where is the Wizard?" he asked Wenlach.

"Riding ahead. He should be back to us in the evening. But at this rate, he will not manage it. He had better continue riding towards Bree," the woman answered curtly. Her breaths, now Harry noticed, came shallowly and ponderously, as if she could not take enough air into her lungs. And indeed, the wind was whipping fast and ferociously, as if wanting to topple them and tear them apart… There were advantages to being small, after all, then. – But this thought did not bring amusement to him. The company had been sprinting with only three minutes respite every few hours, so it must take a toll on them, however light it was. But he? He had been too lazy…

As if knowing that it was being noticed (and cursed), the wind picked up even more. Then, quite suddenly, big flakes of snow fell from the opulent greyish clumps up in the sky. They were swept by the great rushes of air towards the unlucky travellers, before they could taste how dirty the earth was. The company were soon running in a tight circular formation, providing a windbreak and what little warmth there was for each other, just a breath of will away from shivering – or so Harry perceived. Wenlach adjusted her arms around Harry so that he was cocooned further in her embrace, all the closer to the warmth of her body, while she herself shook slightly from the force of the harsh, chilly and wet wind. It grated at Harry's sense of fairness, so he resolved to also make her more comfortable, in whatever way possible.

But how? His hands were tucked to the sides of his body, pinned in place by Wenlach's. She would not appreciate him sticking the appendages out just to warm her. He had learnt that from adults in his own world who had tried to guard him. His wand, tucked in her belt for safekeeping, was thus out of reach. The last resource he had was only his mind, yet he had no way to utilise it. Hogwarts had never taught its pupils mind arts and wandless magic; one had to learn from other – obscure – sources, and Harry had had neither the time nor the will to do so during his six years studying there. If only Gandalf—

Yes! Gandalf! The Wizard used another form of wand – a staff – to channel his magic, but Harry had a suspicion that it was only for show and swiftness in magic-weaving, just like when people blessed with talent in wandless magic reused their wands to aid them. The result of Gandalf's magic was more natural than Harry had ever seen, though; even Dumbledore had not been that adept in achieving such feat. So how was he to imitate him? Did he really have to match his steps and result with Gandalf's? He would have said that it would not hurt to just try at another time, but at this moment, a misled attempt would indeed hurt him and others.

If he would just concentrate more, emptying his mind instead of struggling with knotted thinking…

— "_Empty your mind, Potter!" _—

No, it was Snape's occlumency instruction, not a way to reach his magic—

Was it?

Now, would it hurt anyone if he tried emptying his mind? He could make himself relax even under the pressure of the looming, imposing snowstorm. The others would not gain the protection they deserved, but at least there would be no damage done. So…

"No."

"Hmm? Little one?" Wenlach breathed. Her left ear was directly beside Harry's head. He smacked himself, hard, mentally. He must be more careful from now on with his thoughts, lest he would be lost again and meanwhile do something he had never intended to do, like talking aloud to himself.

A shake of his little head sufficed just now, at any rate.

Then he was back to the tangles of his brooding thoughts.

And, at last, the blizzard came down on them in full force.

Harry lost the meagre concentration he had just achieved. The wind whipped the company in a frenzy now, mercilessly. It brought deathly chil and snow with it, penetrating his bones, seeping through the cocoon as though it were nothing. It whistled madly in his ears, like the howling of a tortured wolf, and he could not suppress a whimper of fear. He was terrified by the spectacle of raging wild power around him, like he had never before. He caught snatches of shouts and screams and cries of fear in the screeching wind, and the oppressive clouds pinned his soul down as if it could break him any time soon. – Was this what the others had feared?

Harry did not know why they kept to the middle of the road, where they were directly under the storm's mercy; that was too close to a death wish for his liking. But he could not ask Wenlach why. She was struggling, despite her position on the middle of the living, moving circle of Elves. Her arms now just stubbornly clung to Harry's body, barely supporting him. He imagined that those slim appendages were numb from the chill, the prolonged unmoving position, and his weight combined. He felt miserable finding that. He was now a nuisance to the adults, just like he had been in his past life.

But he must somehow connect himself to the nature to enhance, draw out, and control the ambient magic in it, if he wanted to help. It sounded like a very, very bad and foolish idea, doing it when nature itself was out of control. He felt helpless; and when he felt helpless, he became cranky. – But thankfully, he did not let it out past his mind… for now. Sliding back into the full protection of Wenlach's arms, he soon drowned into a state between sleep and full awareness, restless and grumpy.

Additional Notes:

I decided to enhance the experience with storm, sharpening the differences between being a Firstborn and Secondborn in terms of what Harry felt. Title it as an interlude of a chapter, whatever you wish, but it is here nonetheless. But don't worry, the other scenes are in the next chapter.

Despite Gandalf's knowledge shared with him, Harry still thought and measured like a Secondborn. (Things like that can't be changed only by knowledge, I think.) So it is why he was confusingly compared the Elves to how Men endured.

But on the topic of endurance: To me, Elves indeed have much greater endurance. They, however, are not that invincible against all weather and climate. (Look how the Grinding Ice played out, for those who also read The Silmarillion.) And in this particular storm, they could be either:  
a. worrying about Harry, or  
b. worrying that it might be something sent by the Enemy to harass everyone, somehow.  
And wouldn't you think that a windy chilly winter is colder than simply a chilly winter? I have never experienced it, given my being born and raised and living in a tropical area… but my own experiences at least give me some small measure of comparison.

So… take what you wish from this, and I would love to hear what you think of it. :)


	7. Chapter 6

Author's Notes:

This is another mesh of chapters that I decided needed improvement. As a result, it looks nowhere like any chapter in the story's previous version. For those who liked the previous version more than this one, I'm sorry. I still have files of the previous version's chapters, though, if you'd really like to read them. (I don't see why you would, but who knows…)

But I hope you all will enjoy this.

- Rey

**Chapter****6**

Gildor shivered. Fell voices were in the air, howling and shrieking. – Taunting. – It was really not an ordinary storm. And they had a baby in their midst… Sauron could not have chosen a better time.

The hoods of their cloaks, made to endure such travel hazards, strained to protect their heads. The rim strings knotted under the chin of the wearers tugged wildly by each slap of the wind, pulling the knots looser and looser.

The company no longer ran. They ploughed through the harsh wind, through the quickly-rising piles of snow.

Wenlach was weakening. He could see that. She had been trying so hard to shield the baby from the knowledge of the storm's true cause. But she was stubborn, and proud, and wished for no assistance from her companions. Her thick Silvan blood must be a torment also, he supposed, as by that her senses were more attune to the nature around her, more than her Ñoldorin companions including himself. He could not imagine how the foul solcery in the air was affecting her now, and he did not wish to do so presently.

She was entirely too proud.

– And the nearest settlement was yet some ways away, far in the measure of this weather.

He manoeuvred himself behind her, watching her keenly in case she stumbled from either exhaustion or distraction. Slowly, slowly he added his own shield, his own veil, over her protection. Praying to the One that his strength would suffice, and begging to Ulmo and Manwë to stay the storm, he expanded the veil fingernail by fingernail, first around her, then around the rest of the company.

Many others put their own pattern, their own strength, into the close weft. But some, unfamiliar with the Working or too young and spent (Eldamir) to do so, could only huddle around Wenlach, taking Gildor's task of watching her from his hands. And as the Working tightened and thickened, the wind decreased in volume and harshness within the invisible dome that kept all of them in.

He could vaguely recall something like this, done ages ago before the Sun and Moon yet shone. But most of all, he could recall the bitter ice harder than stone and the bitterer wind howling and stealing warmth from one's body – and stealing lives too, in some occasions. People had done this, through the long and tortuous trek that had stolen his *(1)begetters. And twelve people did that, an age later, within a well of darkness deep beneath a despoiled tower, stealing his heart-father, lord and caretaker from him…

He would not let any more be stolen from him. He would not… And finally he understood why Wenlach clung so fast to the baby, letting herself be a shield for him. She must have lost many people, more than what he had heard so far (either from herself or her kin and old friends) regarding her past life. And she was quite older than he was…

They crested a sloping road, and there it was, the Secondborn simple town of Bree, the haven that they had been seeking.

But the road to its wooden gates was packed up with a hillock of snow, until the weathered planks were entirely unseen behind – or probably beneath – the white piles. And the town they were guarding held apparently no life in it, all white and still under the force of the blizard.

Did the Secondborn know? Did they realise that this storm was not all natural?

A red eye moved, pivoting on an unseen axis, roaming, searching, ever searching…

The shield weakened.

The inn was in sight, nearly snowed in yet promising some shelter.

The shield collapsed, but they were already inside the building, barging in – to the Secondborn's surprised stares. The tatters of the Working instantly reattached themselves to the walls, and Gildor pounced on the chance as if dog to a meaty bone, reconnecting and expanding the weaving for a new netted dome ancored within the very walls.

And so they were safe, for a while, or so he thought, and Sauron's ever-wandering eye could not get to the baby in their midst, in their protection. Thus he relinquished his tenuous hold on consciousness, his body demanding rest and replenishment of his energy.

For his heart-father, his true father, he would protect the damaged child to his last strength. For the memory of golden locks and laughing blue eyes in a throne of a subterranean city, thrown out by his own people to die in a pit yet deeper and much fouler…

For the rememberence of strong, warm arms around him in an everlasting night those ages ago, shielding him against biting winds and carrying him above the hungry maws of jagged, treacherous ice.

For the nís he admired, the nís he loved, who refused to be weakened on the face of adversity. And also for the memory of his heart-sister, another headstrong nís that was lost two ages ago on an uncertain voyage together with her mortal spouse…

She was old, so old, and yet somehow young. He knew, by subtle questioning to many parties and covert watching throughout the long years, that she had been raised in relative shelter, and lived her life in relative peace. Yet this invisible battle was not one waged with orcs or wargs or bandits, like she might be more accustomed to, and he could plainly see how shaken she was in its wake. – And how she was slowly winning over the shock, in spite of everything… And now she was staring intensely at him, although the effect was slightly spoiled by how large her eyes had become in her effort to muster herself.

(Was it really all that mattered about her, though? He had a strong suspicion that he lacked something crucial here, that which he could not lightly acquire, that impaired his judgement on the Elven woman. But the shields about her mind were quite strong, and she never failed to keep them up even when resting or dreaming.)

"Mithrandir."

He nodded.

"Where were you?"

He waved tiredly around at the small parlour they were in, and threw her a meaningful look. Her eyes widened further for the fraction of a second, and he glimpsed recent terror embedded in their depths. And… trauma? Had she ever undergone a similar, terrifying pursuit before?

"Do not worry. We are safe, for now." He tried to soothe her by words only, knowing that a comforting touch of a hand would be interpreted as a sign of weakness by her, thus hated. But they sounded hollow to his ears, untrue, and he perceived that she thought so.

He had been here, preparing rooms for the Elven company to lodge in in outward seeming, whilst bracing himself for a clash with the enemy he had been sent to this land to battle. He was thankful that Gildor had been there to protect the rest of the Elves from the worst of the ensuing fight. And yet he was not so cold-hearted that he had not feel a pang in his chest upon the ellon's entrance into the parlour, carried by one of his friends, face drained of all colours and *(2)eyes closed as if in death.

And Wenlach had been no worse, staggering in right behind, clutching Harí to her chest in a death grip while her eyes roamed around the firelit room, frightened and maddened And in the wake of the weary procession, Eldamir was dragged by two other Ellyn, shaking incontrollably, and feverishly muttering prayers of safety and concealment to the Starqueen.

They were all exhausted, even Harí. (Although, for the latter, the weariness might stem from some sort of empathic solidarity.) And they were all resting now, recuperating, save the woman sitting rigidly opposite him. But it was discomfiting to him, somehow, that there were only the two of them here. For one, he did not know how to comfort her, and he had rarely failed in this particular task in all his sojourn in Middle-earth.

But it seemed that he had not lost his *(3)old knack for visions, because then she asked, "Who was the child before he was born as an Elf, Mithrandir?" How should he answer it? It was the centre of Harí's secret!

He was both glad and rueful that the elleth's companions were not there, now. Their presence would only mean more questions and assumptions. But without them also he had no distraction to bend her attention to, sadly.

"Why do you think so?"

At least he could buy time…

The hardening of her countenance advised him not to stall, though. And the glint in her eyes was so reminiscent of her name.

"His thoughts were unguarded and loud," said she. He winced inwardly. He had forgotten to safeguard Harí's mind from leaking out. But then again, the Elves would have noticed it, and they would possibly flay him alive for that, seeing it as violation on an Elf-baby.

But now, what should he say? She had shot her arrow right on the middle of the mark, again. He could no longer flee.

An eyebrow rose high on her forehead. Skeptical. Reproachful. Accusing. Determined.

"I have not gained his permission." He relented at last. The other eyebrow joined the first right beneath her hairline. Surprise, disbelief. At least she had cooled down a little…

"Was your tale about your finding him in the Shire true?" Demanding, even more suspicious. It was not a good sign. Wenlach only slowly trusted anyone, he knew and experienced it himself; and if the trust was lost, it would be nearly impossible to regain it.

"I would not dare lie." He just hid things… many things.

A thought, ridiculous and yet so simple and sensical, flashed through his mind like a lightning bolt. She might have been born either early in the history of the Firstborn, or born from parents who were the first Elves living in Cuiviënen. People from that time either worshipped the Spirits like they should *(4)the One, or despised them, seeing them as those who separated them from their kin and friends. – She would belong well in the second category. And the long bitter path she had endured afterwards might have shaped her into a hardened being… He was so tempted to prove – or disprove – this theory.

Her glare intensified, as if she could read the same thought he was mulling over. It was not the right time, then. Next time when they were alone…

He could not fault her irritation at his reticence either. But apparently, neither could he defend himself from her.

"Should you not take a bit of rest?" he coaxed her, hoping she would budge. "We are safe here, for now. But I do not know how long we shall be free from his prying eye. We should utilise the time that we have to our best advantage." Then, seeing her hardening countenance, he hastily added, "We shall talk about him when we have time. Could you please wait until we have arrived at Imladris?"

She nodded slowly, relenting. He cheered inwardly. He was free from her pestering, for now. He would have time, too, to think up a good answer to satisfy her suspicion about Harí. – When she finally exited the parlour, he let loose a relieved sigh. Dealing with those Firstborn living in the Undying Lands had been easier, in hindsight, although He had groused so much on it at that time.

The Wandering Company took only three rooms in the inn, and that was already lucky for them considering the circumstance. (If Mithrandir had not booked those rooms before their arrival, they would not have had any to rest in now.) Her companions might not feel comfortable sharing a living space four to five persons a room, Wenlach thought, but she knew they could do nothing else. It made her self-appointed task of checking into the comforts of each person (as per her habit) lighter, too. (She felt even more fortunate that she only shared a room with Laegnar, although admittedly it was the smallest room in the inn fit for "the Big Folk" – as the little people named Firstborn and Secondborn alike.) All the same, she doubted any of them would get any sufficient rest, with the fell storm raging outside the brick walls of the inn. Personally, she could not.

She had left Mithrandir alone in the parlour, and felt cowardly doing so. But she could not help it. The Istro was too prying for his own good. Now was not a fine time for that kind of subterfuge. They had to concentrate on making sure that they could dwell safely, and in secret, in the inn until the storm passed.

She stood pressing her body against the closed door of one of their rented rooms, sensing and listening. The wood she leant against was old but sound, and Gildor's Working wove itself amongst the fossilised veins and grains. Five Firstborn entities hid behind the wood, curled alone or against each other for comfort and a sense of security, on the flat spaces available. Exhaustion and fear permeated the room as if smoke, blanketing its occupants, allowing them no reprieve. She frowned.

She put her hands flat against the door plank, and focused her concentration inward. Letting her senses be bathed in her own escence, she hummed a wordless song. Memories of care and comfort within the shelter of her home and family played vividly before her eyes, giving life to the song.

She stopped before the memories brought her to how long she had not been reunited with her parents, and yet bleaker paths happening when earth was much younger.

Steeling herself, she moved to the next room, reminding herself that she only have to do this twice. Only twice… But she already felt her long-quiescent longing for her home and her old pains and sorrows reawakening.

It was only a long moment later that she finally managed to, again, conjure up the happy, carefree memories of her childhood and youth. But this time she did not sing from outside. Two of the four occupants of this particular room were in need of more than a song of care and comfort. (She did not know if she would manage this task, but she was determined to at least try her best.)

Eldamir swiftly latched onto her tired frame, just after she opened the door to the room, leaping up from wherever he had hidden himself. The youth then curled up in her lap when she settled herself on the floor, like someone more than a thousand years younger than he was. He was still babbling nonsense, she noted, words like "eye" and "torture" stringed together into an incoherent mess.

What should she do? Her earlier conviction that she had to help the occupants of this room in a more tangible way puffed away like dust in the wind. She could not give a physical comfort to anyone, being no longer used to doing so, and rarely allowed it to herself in the recent long years. And anyway, what could she do with a horrible memory that must have incited Eldamir's fright? Erase it? She would be just like Sauron, then.

She could not give him a song about her childhood, too, if what she suspected was the cause of his madness was true. His village had been razed by foul forces from the Black Tower in the southern tip of Greenwood the Great, and he had been one of the very few survivors – mostly children. And she had lived out her childhood in a forest as well, although not really the same as that he had lived in. She feared he would only break, if she proceeded with her earlier plan.

He was not alone, though, now, and he was relatively safe. (Although, she did not want to tempt Sauron by raising a song about confidence of safety during this unnatural storm.) Being so close to him now, and feeling his weight and warmth within her awkward embrace, was strangely – and surprisingly – comforting. She was not alone. She could face everything, if she was not alone.

"I am here, little Jewel. Everyone is here," she whispered into an ear poking out of the ragged braids.

And Eldamir slumped bonelessly in her arms, his shaking subsiding little by little.

He had not realised that he was not facing the storm alone, then, just as she.

Soon, someone settled beside her in a weary sort of grace, and touched her shoulder lightly. Wenlach looked up, and her grey-green eyes met with the deep liquid grey of Aros'.

She gulped. An entirely new emotion coursed through her body and spirit, singing praises for him – his hair, soft as river-foam and thick like clouds and white like fall-sprays, his eyes, like starlit pools disturbed by ripples, his quiet confidence, the childhood they shared…

She transferred Eldamir to him, perhaps a little rougher than she had intended, and fled the room. She busied herself in the next moments removing the occupants of the other room to the one she had just visited, and then telling Mithrandir that he could use the now-emptied room if he would. She fetched Laegnar from the other room without looking at anyone, at last, and retreated to her own. At least she was not alone, if only in the company of a toddler. It was a more acceptable prospect than spending the duration of the storm with Gildor and Aros. She was not yet ready to deal with strong emotions.

The world was full of chaos, and yet Harry was somehow detached from it, in a very subtle and natural way. It was weird, a new experience for him, and a welcome one at that. He felt almost… human. He spent his resting time in an exhausted reverie full of blurry images and impressions. He did not know who held him, but it was faintly male, and just as weary as Wenlach had been before she got rid of him.

But perhaps she was not leaving him to get rid of him? Regardless, she had left him so abruptly that he had been jolted into awareness, before his current holder coaxed him back into reverie. (To his unending horror, he had nearly cried himself silly because of that unexpected treatment. Nono, he could not allow himself to fall into such level of weakness.)

And then, he could sense her just outside the room, dithering, with heavy emotions weighting her thoughts. He longed to comfort her, to make her forget those thoughts, or at least forgo them for a moment. But it was only some time later that she came in. And Eldamir filled her arms instead of Harry himself.

He wanted to despise the older, older boy, but found he could not. He just felt… bereft, helpless. He despised himself instead, for hanging dearly onto Wenlach. He had long learnt that he could not let himself care about anyone; but he had never really succeeded doing so. The temptation of love was too great.

A light, slender finger traced his hairline in a gesture of comfort. Harry let out a soft sigh and buried himself further into his cocoon and the arms of his holder. A thought not of his own connected to his mind in a featherlight touch: `Why the heavy thoughts yourself, little one?` And the finger now traced the side of his arm, stopping to play with his tiny fingers (which had been on the way to his mouth).

He could not answer it. He would not.

And before his holder could tease him into replying, he was swept into a set of more familiar arms and enveloped in an equally-familiar spirit. Wenlach. She brought him away from his previous holder and the space that was now packed with restless and fearful people, into another space that was very, very small but cozy.

He let his sight focus on the reality, and blinked rapidly. Wenlach was staring thoughtfully back at him, and she was firstly unaware of his awakening.

When she did notice his alertness, though, she just coaxed him back into reverie with a set of melodies that incited views of blue mountains and wide lakes and green forests and large meadows. Butterflies and bees skipped and danced and wove among the fragrant, breeze-nodding flowers, all bathed in vibrant sunlight. Rabbits and hares and moles darted under the leaves and fronds, searching for food.

Harry snuggled deeper into her arms and rested his ear against her heart. There was no sea in her lullaby, but the sea was in her heart, ever beating, ever shushing. He wanted to go to the sea…

Footnotes:

*(1) Exactly what it means: those who beget, who biologically bring someone to life. I guess the practise of separating begetters and parents is true in both the Firstborn and Secondborn, especially in wartime or simply hard, hard time. But Secondborn do not have the word "begetter"…

*(2) There is a hint in The Two Towers and The Return of the King that Elves sleep with eyes open. This is a point of debate in many Tolkien-fan communities. But here I chose to portray Elves as sleeping with eyes open. (Oh, and there is also a fanon theory that a Firstborn only sleeps with eyes closed if he or she is heavily injured or exhausted, or dead. And I used it here.)

*(3) In The Silmarillion, there is a reference on Olórin the Maia, who incites bright visions of hope in people's minds. And one of Gandalf's names, as he mentions it in The Return of the King, is Olórin… I simply connected the two of them and refered to it. But this time, it is more a foretelling than a vision.

*(4) Eru. Ilúvatar. The Allfather. God. (Or, in my term, "the All.")

Translation:  
nís (Quenya): female


	8. Chapter 7

Author's Notes:

We will arrive at Rivendell in the next chapter. (Yea!)

Thanks muchly for those who have put this story in their communities, favourite lists, and story alert lists. (Please drop a comment or criticism if you could. Silent company is all right, but talkative one is much preferred, especially those with constructive criticisms. :)) And for the lurkers out there too… Wow! The story hits climbed rapidly! And special thanks to those who dropped by and reviewed: Vanime18430, Tara-Yo, Jenni, Blackinky, yamiyugi23, Stelmaria, child-of-paradox-and-chaos, Svenka, AnimeIceFox, Tamahome8, and Lala. You are all so awesome!

The terms here may be unfamiliar to you, since they are in Quenya; therefore I advise you to scroll down to the translation section and read it before all. (But do not read the end yet! LOL)

Hope you like this chapter!

- Rey

Chapter 7

_Yes,__no,__yes,__no,__yes,__no,__yes,__no,__yes__ – __Ah!__This__is__so__silly.`_

Gildor scowled at the door; not just a door, but the door leading to Wenlach's room. He had battled Sauron, although indirectly, just some time ago, and now he dithered from entering the sleeping area of a nís.

He had been woken up by Aros' insistant shaking on his shoulder. The nightmare of his long past, particularly the events happening in the Isle of Werewolves, had plagued his reverie. He had managed not to scream out during the horrifying, vivid recounting, it seemed, but his limbs still thrashed in futile defense. (Angarillo and Aros were the victims of his reaction this time, judging from their disgruntled looks and bruises.) That forced him to be away from sleep for the reminder of the resting time. (Besides, nobody would get their deserved rest if he kept trying to sleep.) That also made his mind go down some unexpected trains of thoughts, unfortunately, one of which was about Wenlach and Laikanáro.

Laikanáro. Ah, such an apt name, if only the child would accept it. But perhaps it was yet too early for the child to assume an Elven name? He seemed to have lived with another race and been accustomed to the said race's ways – as odd as it sounded. They could not just tear him from those ways.

If only he could reach the child… Did Wenlach keep those concealed daggers in the presence of a baby? Angarillo had nearly become a victim of her knives once, when he was in the process of weaving a Working around her dreaming form, in hopes of concealing her female nature from the approaching band of orcs. And it was by no means the only occurrence, although until now nobody had figured out why she had always reacted thus. Personally, though, Gildor guessed that most of Wenlach's dreams were not pleasant, leading to violent responses to seemingly-harmful approaches done while she was vulnerable. Still, he did not wish to prove his theory by barging in and approaching her well-defended self and charge, not especially now. But he wanted to see how his company's charge – whom he was beginning to claim as his also – was fairing, and he did not want to wait until sunrise to know.

Atar *(1)Ingoldo had taught him about many things, including the Songs of Power, before his demise battling against a werewolf to save Beren the Secondborn, Lady Luthien's beloved. Gildor had been an eager learner, and his adoptive father had been just eager to teach him about many things. Still, it was painful for him to practise what he had been taught, always; he only missed the presence of his lord and foster father all the more in that way.

Was the pain worth the result, now?

There was nothing he could do except try. He just hoped he was not caught doing what he was about to do, because nowadays almost no one of the Ñoldor knew how to harness the Song in what Atar Ingoldo had done back then, when facing *(2)the Abhored One in the fallen Maia's accursed lair. There could be awkward questions and unwanted attentions aplenty, and scorn too, if they ever knew for what purpose he performed this over-glorified art. (The Lindar did it all the time for various reasons! And Atar Ingoldo's sister did it too in numerous occasions. What was special about it, then?)

"Open now the door, silent.  
No crieking nor footsteps and breathing heard,  
By the nís, and those outside,  
Until I deem it enough, and my purposes achieved.

"Deep be the nís' slumber.  
Be she not disturbed, nor stirred in anger,  
Until I deem it enough, and my purposes achieved.  
But let the child wake, if he so wishes.  
Then he and I can talk, safe from any listening ears…"

The door swung on silent hinges, as if hushed and pushed by an invisible hand. Gildor's eyes widened with disbelief and glee. It worked! Much of his strength had not returned to him after the vigorous ward-making twice done in a row, and the race against Sauron's storm, and he had initially thought this impossible.

With his heart beating rapidly, he snuck into the room and nudged the bewitched piece of wood back to place, sealing a part of his woven words with his own deed. His eyes instantly roamed the vicinity, and latched onto a figure laid atop the old covers, her eyes half-way open in Elven slumber. Now where was Laikanáro?

Oh no. Firstly, where were her hidden weapons? He did not want to be gutted, stabbed or beheaded by one of her lethal knives after coming this far and doing so much. He cared deeply for her, true, yet nobody was perfect and he had been making himself acknowledge that fact in regard to the nís. Besides, he did not wish to find out about how she would feel if she had accidentally murdered someone in this way.

Glint… Glint… Handle… Ah, there, under the pillow and slipped between the frame and the mattress on Wenlach's side of the bed. But only two?

Gildor smirked to himself. Wenlach had been softened by the Elfling, definitely.

But had he not been also? And for that matter, everyone else who had ever come in contact with little Laikanáro. (And he could not discount the suggestion that she was too exhausted to keep up her vigilance, too.)

Something moved on Wenlach's side, apparently disentangling itself slightly from her. Gildor held his breath and inched towards that side of the nís, away from the daggers. There could only be one living being small enough for the size of that moving lump under the sheets, who did not make Wenlach uncomfortable.

A tiny hand poked out of the top of the covering, then pushed the layers down, exposing the sleepy face of Laikanáro. The baby blinked his eyes into focus and yawned, looking away from the disappointed Gildor. He seemed intent on continuing his slumber, or at least lazing about.

"Little one, please turn around? I wish to see your face," Gildor coaxed in Sindarin, his voice not above a whisper. He caressed the tip of Laikanáro's left ear, which stuck out from his messed-up nest of hair, which made the little one yelp – tickled. It did not make him turn around, though.

"I need to talk about something with you," frowning, Gildor said, choosing another tactic. What could he possibly talk about with a one-year-old baby? But Atto did—

Regardless, Laikanáro turned back to him, and this time he shifted so that he was positioned towards Gildor, not Wenlach like before. The Ñoldo smoothed out his features, making sure that he looked more friendly than aloof, although inwardly his frown deepened. What kind of youth preferred a discussion over admiration and a chance to be spoiled? His trepidation about the child sored to new heights. Laikanáro seemed too mature for his age, ridiculously and incredulously so.

Dared he ask Sinderáno, though? Dared he face the truth – whatever it was – the Istar and perhaps Laikanáro himself had been concealing so far?

But those emerald orbs looked up at him with perfect innocence, flawless…

No, no, he could sense wariness in their depths, as if the child expected to be harmed any time soon. He fought from gagging and grimacing. The notion was too vile for even his wildest and darkest imagination. Had some Elves fallen that far into Moringotto's grasp?

A noise of whinging impatience reached his ears. Gildor started, then looked guiltily at the pouting Laikanáro. "I was carried away by my thoughts, little one," he said by way of apology. Intending to pacify the child further, he reached out a hand towards him, thinking that babies liked playing with someone's fingers – as his experience a long time ago had taught him.

He did not expect Laikanáro to flinch away, as if avoiding a blow. And now that he was caught off-guard, Gildor could not hide his dumbfounded expression, which then transformed into fury to whoever had hurt the baby. A baby! Who had been heartless enough to strike a baby?

"No, little one, I am not angry with you," he said for the terrified Laikanáro's sake. His voice was strained, and it was hard to breathe, lest to inhale deeply in order to banish his rage. But his time with Laikanáro was limited (because Wenlach would surely want to carry the baby again in their last leg of the journey to Imladris), and he had to make do with what he had, without the disturbance of his own emotions and feelings.

"Where are you from, Greeneyes?" he murmured. While he was schooling his emotions back into order, the strange Elfling was scrutinising his limp, splayed upturn hand lying before him atop the sheets as if a piece of brand-new invention. Laikanáro shook his head.

"Where are your parents?"

"Dead."

Gildor caught himself from jerking his hand back in reflex on the shocking news. Laikanáro's tone was bland, detached. He only had one idea why: Laikanáro had never grown up with his parents, and he had only heard from his caretakers that his parents were dead. But that meant there was a chance that his parents still lived, if somehow his caretakers had lied to him—

And if they had hurt him—

Gildor shook his head and breathed out his penned-up emotions sharply through his nose. At the sudden noise, Laikanáro snatched back his miniscule appendage and shrank into the sheets. That only exacerbated the situation in the older nér's mind.

"Come out, please, Harí? I never mean to harm you. My hand is yours to play with until Wenlach is awake."

Because, as furious as he was now, Wenlach's wrath could be greater even only on finding that he had snuck into her room and bewitched her dreaming form. He might have to flee the vicinity of the inn if she knew that he had upset Laikanáro. He would even be willing to call the child with the peculiar name if only the said child would cease taking him as a possible tormenter, therefore giving him time to acquaint himself with the little one.

Wenlach… If only she would accept him as her spouse… The three of them could built a family together, albeit an unconventional one at that.

Pushing the thought violently to the back of his mind, Gildor glared up at the boney ceiling. He could feel a soft, tiny hand with splayed fingers press against his own, much larger one, then dragged itself towards his index finger and curled around it tentatively. A faint smile tilted up the edges of his lips, twitching, forced. The touch was somehow warming and comforting, surprising him in its potancy.

Was it how his foster father had felt back then, in *(3)Helcaraxë, when his begetters had been murdered by the violent chill and grinding ice?

His heart clenched on that thought. Now he had lost all his parents, foster or no, in such violent ways. Strange that the coming of an Elven child, which should have heralded hope and joy, instead brought the weight of the world around and on top of him, suffocating him. But would it be that way always? Would he someday meet his Atto *(4)Finda again?

He let loose a deep, shuddering breath. It had been long since last he had thought of Atar Ingoldo being reborn. Yes, the presence of Laikanáro had triggered all the memories from his youth, as much as he despised such notion.

With yet another sigh, he looked at the Elfling before him,

And flinched in surprise. Laikanáro's vivid-emerald eyes shone with deep understanding and even the wisdom of one who was much older than he was. That scared him immensely.

It was no wonder, thus, that Gildor excused himself (feeling rather stupid afterwards for asking for permission to leave from a very young child) from the room in the span of a moment. The Elfling's gaze was too eerie, and he did not wish to dwell in disturbing images or memories now.

Right when he closed the door behind her, Wenlach stirred and blinked her eyes into focus. Her baby charge, meanwhile, stared bemusedly at the wooden plank which had just clicked softly shut. Gildor just did not know that at that time he was just as great a mystery as the child himself, at least to one whom he called Laikanáro.

However, Gildor had another to occupy his mind then: the Istar.

Who was striding quite purposefully towards him from down the hall.

Faking innocence, he greeted the disguised Maia with a nod and a statement in Quenya – cutting right to the matter, surprisingly for an Elf like he was. "Never say to anyone about what I did, please, Sinderáno. I will not likely repeat that performance… and I do not want questions thrown at me about it, including from you." The mask fell from his countenance and he pleaded openly to the Istar.

Something like ironic amusement flitted past the old man's sharp gaze, but Gildor had no chance to comment on it. The Istar had turned around – while beckoning at the Elf – and stridden back the way he had come. A feeling of foreboding rose in Gildor and he hesitated, gulping audibly. He had not thought, nor wanted, to spend more than a chanced moment with Sinderáno. Their discussions always turned into debates in the end, and he was not prepared for it now.

But he would have been a lesser Elf if he shirked from the inevitable. So, with stiff posture and his chin raised in defiance, he followed the deceptively-frail-looking not-quite-a-Man to the parlour.

Sinderáno had seated himself before the blazing hearth on a rickety chair. Not wanting to be put at a disadvantage, Gildor brought a chair to a nearby spot in line with the Istar and seated himself in it tensely. In that way, he could see the other eye to eye clearly, as opposed to if he had chosen a seat farther from the hearth and let Sinderáno turn against the hearth to face him; there was no shadow to hide the other's countenance, at least, although the reflection of fire proved just as distracting.

The Ista, however, perceived the gesture – and all the tension – as something bemusing (or so it appeared). "Why are you so stiff, Gildor? I am in no mood to involve myself in a word fight with you. The Firstborn are impossible when it comes to that," he said offhandedly in Quenya. Gildor scowled.

"And what about Ainur? I heard that they are superior to Elves and Men," he growled harshly in a low tone in the same dialect, his eyes dark with painful memories.

The eyes holding his captive softened with understanding and a slight compassion. Sinderáno leant forward in his seat and spoke in a murmur, "It is not my place to ask pardon for the one who felled your foster father, Gildor, but I am truly sorry for you and what you have endured at his hand, albeit indirectly. But please, do not treat all of us similarly. It is like comparing Lord *(5)Manwë to Melkor."

Gildor's eyes hardened, but he said nothing. After a moment, Sinderáno continued, "You will meet him again someday, young one. You may be reunited with your parents as well."

A small choked snigger escaped Gildor's throat. His lips tilted upwards in a bitter sneer. "My parents, Sinderáno? I can barely remember them," he said in something almost like a cat's dark purring. "They were taken from me very early in my life, too early. But I was not as famous as Fëanáro to deserve more pity, was I not? And there were many losses similar to mine in that journey. No one knows that Itarildë and I used to huddle together after her mother's and my begetters' death, trying to comfort each other. Why did the Valar exile us, Sinderáno? Was it not our freedom to come and go between Aman and Endorë – our homeland?"

"It is not my place to answer—"

A contemptuous, derisive snort.

"—But I can assure you that you will be welcomed back in Aman when you tire of this land."

The sneer and the glare were not shaken.

"And the little one is coming. I guess he is interested in you, just as you are in him."

That did it. The dark emotions choking Gildor up were swiftly replaced by askance surprise. His eyes narrowed.

Before the nér could say anything about it, though, his ears picked up the faint sound of fabric rustling in the hall, coming closer and closer in a slow but steady progression. Sinderáno was right. But what part of him intrigued Laikanáro? The little one had been quite unresponsive to him so far.

"He has many secrets, as do you, I, and others. Please do not force him to reveal them. He is not what you think he is, Gildor. Do not treat him like a mere baby, as having no say in a matter, although I do hope you will come to love him like you would any other children. Time will tell if he will truly be a child in the end." Sinderáno's soft words startled Gildor from his thoughts. On the nér's arched eyebrows (much less hostile than before), he sighed and said, "I shall tell you only if the child permits me to. It is his life's story, after all. Or mayhaps you could ask him yourself, when situation allows it."

The frown marring Gildor's countenance deepened, but then it smoothed out and he nodded stiffly in reluctant assent.

It was just as the subject of their small conversation showed himself on the open door of the parlour. It was also the first chance Gildor had to examine the curious toddler in full, somewhat at his leisure.

Laikanáro was staring around the room and at the two people in it with wide, wary eyes, as if one waking up from a nightmare and with the vestiges of it lingering in his awareness. He barely stood to the height of Gildor's knees, and his raven locks only reached down to his shoulders, and his overgrown fringes curtained his small face, creating a somewhat-ragged appearance to him, exuding mystery and – strangely – danger. The pair of emerald orbs captured the nér just as surely as they had the first time he had laid eyes on the Elfling, and they had not changed either in intensity, emotion or shape; they were always round as if with awe, wonderment or tension.

And his clothes were most peculiar. The thick cotton breeches were patched here and there and looked worn, but what attracted Gildor was the elastic band around its top. What was that? And he was wearing that strange tunic also, whose front was seamless and whose neckline was smooth and round. They did not look well on the child, but the easy regard he had towards them gave Gildor a – weird – notion that he had been wearing the like of those garments all the time. Well, thought the nér grimly, it should change.

And with that, he rose to his feet, displaying his hands to the startled toddler in the process, in a gesture of trust, and padded slowly to the little one. There was enough time yet for him to acquaint himself with Laikanáro, if the child so wished, and in that way he hoped to flee his past… if only for a while.

Footnotes:

*(1) It is said to be Finrod's mother-name. (Elves, especially the Ñoldor in Valinor, have each a father-name and a mother-name and one or more after-names.) I saw both "Ingold" and "Ingoldo" being used by fanfiction writers, but I think "Ingoldo" is closer to the rules of Quenya. (Yes, I only adopted it from fellow fanfiction writers, but it is not just fanon. I might find the time to search in HoMe later…)

*(2) The translation of Sauron's name in Sindarin; his after-name, so to say.

*(3) "The Grinding Ice." The strait between the Undying Lands and Middle-earth in the past, where the coastlines of both continents ran nearest to each other. It was said to be the way through which Melkor/Morgoth fled after the death of the Two Trees with Ungoliant on his heels. The ever-moving crevasses and ice slabs were said to be deadly, and perpetual winter reigned there.

*(4) A shortened name of Finderáto. Elves took great pride on their names, but what about when they were children, or when young children addressed them – especially intimately, like to a parent or a guardian? That is the idea of why I put Finrod's shortened name there.

*(5) Manwë was Melkor/Morgoth's fallen brother. Manwë basically held the position (King of Arda) which should have been filled by his brother.

Translation (all are in Quenya):  
Ainu: Holly One, a generic term for a Vala or Maia, referring to a male in particular  
Ainur: plural of "Ainu"  
Atto: Dad/Daddy  
Finda: the butchered form of "Finderáto," Finrod's Quenya name  
Helcaraxë: Grinding Ice (literally), derived from Valarin  
Laikanáro: (sharp) Green Fire (literally), Harry's Quenya name  
nér: male Elf  
níss: female Elf  
Moringotto: Morgoth's Quenya translation, first bestowed upon him by Fëanor  
Sinderáno: Grey Wanderer (literally), an invention of mine for the sake of this story


	9. Chapter 8

Author's Notes:

Thank you for your patience! I hope this chapter satisfy you, although, again, it is only about 3000 words long. Thank you for the favourites and alerts and the communities listing this story in them. My never-ending gratitude, especially, to those who have spared a time to review: Basill, Blackinky, Tara-Yo, Johnny-on-the-spot, StaplersBreak, Vanime18431, Pixy, lnky, queenie, l20, and Dur Bereth En Edhel. You all are great!

Now, enjoy!

- Rey

Chapter 8

Harry sat on the edge of the tea table, sulking, his tiny legs swinging with boredom. Elves were bustling silently around, checking packs, straps, provisions, cloaks, weapons… all. And what was he doing? Just sitting there. Even Gandalf praised him for sitting without any kind of resistance in his part. Odd. It was like his living with the Dursleys, in reverse and without the praise. But this was not a welcome change. He wanted to do something to occupy his mind. The silent preparation reminded him painfully of what he and his friends had done two years ago in the Burrow, before their Hocrux hunting. Memories of his past tortured him, after they had been buried for more than a month. They were just like a feast laid before a bound and gagged man; unreachable.

And he was not even a man now… or a human as people in his world knew it. His new identity was alien even to himself. How should he behave? How should he react to things? He did not miss the concerned glances the Elves threw at him, probably when they thought he was not aware. Perhaps he was too silent or sullen? Well, who was willing to sit for hours on end while others bustled around? Certainly not he. He could have tapped into the knowledge and memories Gandalf had shared with him, to see what an Elfling should be doing, but he was not feeling like doing so. In a way, he was rebelling to whoever had put him here, not inside his own imperfect (but familiar) body, and against his wishes in the first place.

Another feeling was unknowingly creeping into his heart also: dread; dread of eminent separation. Gildor had promised to accompany him to Rivendell, but he had never said anything about staying there. Then how should he, Harry, do without these Elves? Now that he was beginning to be accustomed to the band of wanderers, he was reluctant to let go of them. Perhaps he should not have relaxed his guard and let himself be attached to them like that… But he was also tired of constantly be on his guard, of being distant to people around him in fear of separation by any means.

Besides, he feared that there was no one like Wenlach anywhere else. She was somehow different from all the women he had met so far, he mused as the object of his thought glided towards him and picked him up into her arms, herself ready to go. She was so old yet so young, although her outer shell was as hard and impassive as a rock. She was a blend of a mother and big sister to him; not as lovingly-smothering as Mrs. Weasley, but also not as concerned-but-stern as Professor McGonagall. She was clumsy in the ways of child-care and a little awkward when speaking with him, but her slight fondness towards him was genuine. She let him do almost whatever he wanted to… including what he was doing now: curling his limbs around her and burying his face into the side of her neck. He was getting used to this and did not want to forsake it. It was nice to have someone whom he could view as a relative, as family, especially if that someone was always within reach.

He was getting spoiled, he supposed, but without the accompanying guilt.

That was another change that he noticed nowadays. He was getting selfish and uncaring of himself or his surroundings, to the point that he was afraid he would lose his original identity some time in the future. Why had he slid away from what Hermione had – exasperatedly – dubbed "hero complex"? Was it because here he was a nobody? Or because here he was used to getting things his way? Was it a bad development to his character?

Or was he just trying to forget his old self, his old life? That perhaps someday he would no longer be pained by his memories of being a – human, with rounded ears – wizard in a biggotive society, marked since infancy by a mad evil monster to be the latter's killer…

His heart constricted painfully on that thought. To think that he would spend until the end of the world in that form, never dying, away from his loved ones—

Harry tightened his hold around the muscular-yet-feminine body bearing him. His ears picked out the astonished murmurs of the other patrons of the inn, and he smiled grimly to himself. The worst of the blizzard had passed, indeed, but they must think that the snow outside was dreadfully high, impassible. He was not interested himself in how the group would brave the road; well, not really. After all, even if he fretted, he was carried anyway. No one had let him walk thus far. They seemed to be taking an absurd pleasure in carrying him everywhere.

It would be nice if he was let to do some adventure on the road, though… Brooding only made him mad, and contemplating how he was slowly changing scared him immensely.

Unfortunately for him, the opportunity did not arrive until quite later in the journey. By then their group had been reduced to nine people (plus Gandalf), because two runners had been dispatched to bring the news of the eminent guests to Rivendell (and, Harry suspected, to bring word about his presence in the group to the Elves of that place), and two others were positioned as scouts – to see what danger might lie ahead. Gildor asked if he would like to ride on the Elf-man's shoulders, and he instantly agreed. Wenlach seemed reluctant to relinquish him to another person, but Harry assured her with a puppy-dog look and a wide smile—

And a peck on her cheek, to both Wenlach's and Harry's surprise and embarrassment. It had been totally spontaneous, and Harry did not know what had possessed him to do so. Gratitude? Probably. But he did not want to dwell on it now. In that way, it was easier to ignore the tinkling laughter pouring around him from the Elves – no, no, the adults – as well.

Hmm. Where was Gandalf again?

Oh well. Anyway, he had something else to occupy his mind. He was riding on someone's shoulders! When was the last time he had done so? With his own father? But it had been so long ago, and he remembered nothing of his one year with his parents. Uncle Vernon had never touched him as a child too, except to punish him when he had done something wrong with the chores assigned to him.

Gildor flopped him behind the Elf-man's head, half on top of his pack, and meanwhile instructed Harry to hold on tight to his dark silken hair. It was like going riding in the amusement park for Harry. (Not that he had actually gotten the pleasure of partaking on that experience; he only knew from Hermione's descriptions.) Then the Elf-man started running, and it felt like riding a smooth-paced odd-shaped horse. The cold, crisp wind slapping his face was quite invigorating! The scenery passed by in a blur, almost like when Harry had boarded the Hogwarts Express, but now without the noise and the constant tremors and jolts. He felt like gliding through the thin air! And how did Gildor climb up the snowdrift? Then again, Eldamir (who was youngest in the group before he had come) and the silver-haired Aros, who were running some distance in front of them, left nearly no imprints upon the snow. How could it be?

Gildor suddenly ducked and swerved to the side at the same time, while keeping a firm grip on Harry's legs. Caught off guard from his musing, Harry squealed in surprised, then laughed in delight and jubilation on the sheer adrenaline rush. Gildor continued his stunts several times, and they laughed together. Wenlach summarised what they were feeling perfectly. "Silly." But the two males did not stop until much later, when they were tired of laughing.

And nobody protested, too. In fact, all the other Elves were busy trying to get Harry to laugh the same uproarious chortle, until he begged for them to stop.

He felt much lighter afterwards, free, as if the foolish play had awoken something in him, something that had been there all this time and did not want to be put to sleep again. He did not want to put a name to the feeling, but at least now he was aware that it was there. He would not shun it either. It was too good to shake off.

But if the company left him in Rivendell, even though they might return there someday—

No, he would not think of that now. All that he wanted to think about was what would they eat, and with whom he would sleep tonight. After all, the adults had not permitted him to think outside of those so far, by all their treatments of him.

Was this how it felt to be a child, though? If so…

Now he understood why Mrs. Weasley had looked at him so pityingly the first time they had met. It was not only because of his small, skinny built, but also the fact that he was parentless and there was nobody seeing him off. He had never been a child; not knowing how to be one. Gandalf's advice now really made sense to him.

A horrible sense, which suffocated him slowly but surely, worse than the one evoked by his continuous laughter beforehand.

Harry gave an inward firm shake of his head to himself. There was no use crying over spilt milk, people said, and he had better remember it. And there was nothing certain about the future too, even to the seers, so he could only hope that things would go smoothly for himself.

A small hope, but a hope nonetheless.

They took time on the road, to Harry's delight, unlike in their first leg of journey – from Woody End to Bree-land. They reached the outskirts of Rivendell – according to the returning scouts – on the third day of sedate walking and merry jogging. And by then, he had been rotated around the group as though a prize. (And perhaps he indeed was, to the children-adoring Elves.) Now he once more perched on Gildor's shoulders, but the Elf-man was much more solemn than the last time he had been in that position.

Harry had his first look of Rivendell from that vantage point, and he could not prevent a loud "Oh!" of appreciation and wonderment from escaping his gaping mouth.

An airy, welcoming building sat some distance beyond the ford they were to wade through. It was a nice blend between wooden and stone structures, grand and elegant, beyond any Mannish craftmenship. Several of the outer pillars were living trees, while the stone ones were deeply crafted or studded with small, glittering crystals as if morning dew or wave sprays. Ivy trailed along the walls and large windows, and the railings of several balconies jutting from the building were carved to the likeness of tree bark, making the edifice look much more natural than it could have been.

For the first time since his arrival in Arda, Harry appreciated his enhanced sight. Everything was laid out before him in vivid details. Moreover, the sounds of the water and the birds and the trees intoxicated him, coupled with the smell of the river and the grass, making him want to laugh and run free in the huge wild-but-beautiful-looking gardens he saw strewn around the edifice they were aiming for.

Wait. Where had that notion come from?

Then again, he might just do that once he got rid of the embarrassment of such display of childishness. After all, there was no one intent on harming him in Rivendell… right? Oh well, best to find out about it before doing or planning anything else.

There again, his paranoid side speaking… Moody would have been proud. The son of James and Lily Potter was now paranoid; well, had been, actually, since two years ago.

Ah— No! He could not think of them… yet… now.

With a barely-audible sigh, which he hoped translated in Gildor's mind as the extension of his amazement towards the sight before him, he slumped forward, cocooning the Elf-man's head with his body and limbs. Mmm. It was quite a cosy position. Why had he not thought of this before?

The rest of the company were not as relaxed as Harry, however. Even Gildor was tense, although he tried to keep the child perched around his head from noticing it. Wenlach, walking beside him, was in no better condition. On unspoken agreement, the band of Elves stalled from crossing the ford as long as they could, knowing that their little charge would be in another's hands once they crossed the watery border.

But still, that did not buy them much time. Someone was striding into the front porch of the Last Homely House. Elrond, coming to greet the guests, with an expectant look on his usually-stoic visage.

With a defeated sigh, Gildor led his company across the ford separating the inner borders of Imladris and its outer ones, straight to the awaiting lord of the land. They exchanged formal greetings, then Elrond softened up and asked in the Common Grey tongue they had been using, "How are you, my lord? It has been two long years since last you and your company came here." His tone was bland, and his face was masked by a serene expression, but Gildor knew better. The younger Elf had missed his presence, his nearest kin other than *(1)Glorfindel and Galadriel. A twinge of guilt visited his soul briefly; but only so. He could not bear to look at some of Idril's features etched on the Half-Elf's visage, as she had been like a sister to him, and now he had lost her – perhaps forever, if she and Tuor did not reach Aman as they had hoped in their *(2)voyage.

Was it selfish of him to act like this? Was it also selfish of him to wish to claim Laikanáro as his own regardless of anything?

Could he make amends? Would he?

Gildor did not realise that Elrond's eyes were now fixed curiously at the small cloaked figure perched on his shoulders, nor did he acknowledge Wenlach's sharp gaze, as the nís was trying to bring him out of his musing with stare only. He only came back to the state of awareness when a hand wrinkled by age and roughened by weather grasped his and subsequently dragged him forwards. Gildor jerked his appendage free on reflex, to the gruff chuckles of Sinderáno. "Elrond is worried that you are not feeling well, my friend. Shall we adjourn to the Hall of Fire? There you can speak with him undisturbed. You know how empty it is during the day," the Istar said, matching the dialect used probably out of respect, a note of knowledge and sympathy in his voice.

Elrond.

Gildor swivelled his head around, until his eyes landed on the said nér's. Elrond had been standing to the side, allowing the rest of Gildor's company to pass into the house. A soft concerned smile tilted up the Half-Elf's thin lips.

"Forgive me, my lord. My mind was occupied," the older Elf said, while forcing a smile to grace his own lips. "Would you permit me and my charge to freshen up before anything?"

"This land is home to any of my kin, Gildor. You do not need my permission for such small things."

Now the yearning in his voice was unmistakable, to perceptive ears. Dilemma twisted at Gildor's heart. Elrond's hope to keep his family and closest friends in sight was understandable; the Half-Elf had grown rather paranoid ever since his wife had been kidnapped and tortured by orcs near the Pass of Caradhras. But to Gildor, forsaking his wandering meant forsaking his vow that he had taken before the grave of his foster father, that he would never claim any place east of the Sundering Sea as home until the time he departed it forever. Also, he was so used to his nomadic life that he feared he would feel restless if confined to one place only for a long period of time.

Shaking his head to rid himself of his convoluted thoughts, he offered a more genuine smile to Elrond and said, "Thank you, Elrond. It warms my heart. Now shall we come in? I believe the little bird on my shoulders would love to have something down his belly." If he was to stay longer here, to appease Elrond, he felt that they had better use a more informal tone when talking to each other.

Elrond seemed to agree. Laughing, his host nodded and beckoned him to walk beside the Half-Elf. Gildor shifted Laikanáro into his arms, meanwhile, and by then he realised that the child had been staring intently at Elrond. "Is something the matter, little one?" he asked, concerned. His words attracted Elrond's attention, and soon both neri were staring at the cornered-looking Elfling in Gildor's embrace.

Laikanáro just exacerbated the situation by looking that way, he thought, although it was no fault of the child himself. Sinderáno had been very vague regarding the past of the little one, but what he had deduced from his secret meeting with Laikanáro had resulted on a grim conclution: The child had been abused by his former caretakers. But how to tell Elrond this while in the presence of the said child? He did not wish to relinquish Laikanáro too in order to speak more freely with the Half-Elf.

Wenlach solved the problem – thankfully. The nís retraced her steps from the inside of the house and silently extended her hands, asking for the child, after nodding in acknowledgement at Elrond. It was the first time since the arrival of Laikanáro in his life that Gildor delegated the task of minding the child to someone else happily.

But apparently Elrond was not happy at all with the new development to the situation. He hid it well, however; only a slight frown betrayed his feeling. Gildor ignored it at the moment.

They entered the spacious, currently-empty Hall of Fire, and chose seats before the great hearth that always blazed merrily, set into the northern wall. Neither of the two lords of the Ñoldor was willing to break the uncomfortable silence that hung between them, but neither did they wish to distance themselves from each other.

So engrossed were they in their silence, they did not notice the arrival of two more Elves in the large hall. "Elrond, I—" Glorfindel said, but then cut his words midsentence. When the grey eyes of the startled lord were upon him, he modified the question: "Are you busy, Elrond?"

The Half-Elf shook his head. "What do you need me for, Glorfindel, Erestor?" he asked, while glancing meaningfully to Gildor, who stiffened a bit.

"Well, I suppose it can wait," the golden-haired Elf said, his voice and expression thoughtful. "Right, Erestor?" His eyes flickered to the silent blue-grey-eyed Sidna standing beside him, who was smiling with amusement at the uncomfortable Gildor. Erestor nodded absently, and an open grin broke on Glorfindel's face, disconcerting Gildor even more. "May we join you, Lords, if you are just catching up with each other?"

Gildor was cornered now, literally and figuratively. Three pairs of eyes were trained on him – somber grey, bright blue, and blue-grey. They were full of concern and curiosity about him, and he had a bad feeling that an interrogation would ensue, inevitably.

But before all, he must secure a living space for Laikanáro here, in one of the safest safe havens east of the Sundering Sea. The child's care might fall to Círdan later, as Sinderáno had planned (and perhaps agreed by Laikanáro), but it would be best if he was also recognised as family – or at least friend – here. One could not be too cautious in these dark times, or have too many allies.

It turned out, though, that the situation had bested him. Glorfindel and Erestor had met the Elfling in person. Wenlach had detoured to the kitchen in the main building in search of some food for the child to eat, just as the former lord of Gondolin and Gil-galad's best friend (among the many roles he played in the deceased last High King of the Ñoldor's life) had been wandering for similar purpose. And the shocking existence of the Elfling was what he had wanted to ask Elrond about.

How ironic life could be?

Footnotes:

*(1) In my version (well, guess) of the origin of Glorfindel, he was the youngest son of Ingwë, king of the three kindreds of Elves residing in Aman. He had followed the Ñoldor in their rebellion because his close friend Elenwë went in it, accompanying her husband Turgon. When Elenwë died in the crossing of Helcaraxë, he vowed to safeguard Turgon and Idril for her. He died during the fall of Gondolin, was reborn in Aman, and went to Middle-Earth around Third Age 1000, like in the version in Lord of the Rings, together with the Wizards.

*(2) The fate of Idril and Tuor is just as vague as that of Nimrodel and Amroth. (Unless if in one of the manuscripts he was firmly claimed to have drowned.) They sailed after seeing the survivors of Gondolin to safety in Sirion near the end of First Age, because of Tuor's sea longing. No one reported that they had landed in Aman or its surrounding islands, and they did not return to Beleriand too. Chances are, they died on the way or trapped in one of the small islands because the ban of the Valar regarding the rebellion of the Ñoldor had not been lifted. (It was lifted when Eärendel and Elwing came bearing the Silmaril.)

Translation (all in Quenya):  
Finderáto: Finrod's Quenya name  
Laikanáro: (sharp) Green Fire (literally), Harry's Quenya name  
nér: male Elf  
neri: male Elves  
níss: female Elf  
Sinderáno: Grey Wanderer (literally), an invention of mine for the sake of this story

Additional Note: Vanime18431 brought the case of Erestor to me. I had intended to put him there, but forgot. Sorry for leaving him out! Now the mistake has been fixed, though, and I am glad of this new look. Thanks, Vanime!


	10. Chapter 9

Author's Notes:

Once again, pardon the long wait. Perhaps I should warn you now that I cannot update every week. Hopefully every forthnight is fine with you… There are many things to do and many updates to write.

I would like to dedicate this chapter to KyMahalei, a friend who has written about Wood Elves so wonderfully and beautifully, in her story "Another Road." This chapter will contain a touch of the Silvan's customs and abilities, although its quality is below her work's. Hopefully it pleases you, still, readers.

Thank you for being with me so far. I never thought that this story would generate such response from readers. I am flattered and honoured that you like it so much, and will try my best to carry it to the end with good chapters along the way. Thanks for those who have put this story in their communities, favourite story lists, and story alert lists. Many, many thanks for those who have dropped by to ask a question or comment on this work: Blackinky, Vanime18431, Tara-Yo, jdboss1, pixy, Dur Bereth En Edhel, AnimeIceFox, malko050987, Gladoo89, Basill, Robinhoodfan13, doxiesmom14, Anariel Phoenix Blade, Yamiyugi23, My Solitude, Svenka, Amanmor, Reshmi Solaris, Bronze Star, and wolfawaken. You are all great, people.

And before I forget… 100th reviewer got to suggest two prompts for the companion collection to this story (Laegnar: Moments in Life). If you are anonymus, please state the prompts in your review (just a word or a phrase, then I will interpret it myself, just like when I do with my own prompts). If not, the chance falls to the next signed reviewer. If you are signed, it would also be better if you stated the prompts at once. I have given up with trying to give a one-shot because of how little my time is. But I will still do the one-shot I promised for my 50th reviewer, no worries.

Gradually, Harry will refer to himself more as "Laegnor" than "Harry," and he will not refer to the Elves as "Elves" anymore, but simply men and women. When the moment comes, it means he is slowly blending into his new self. He is really starting in this chapter, but it is not yet enough. Just thought to warn you in case of confusion. Oh, and in this chapter, the dialogues are in Sindarin.

More notes are at the end of this chapter, below the footnotes and translation.

Edit: Blasphemy. I forgot to mention who had helped me develop this chapter (although in the end my muse ran off on her own and made most of it herself, anyway, even far from my own expectations). Thank you for yamiyugi23 for the suggestion about toys (and, I think, the bath scene).

I hope you will enjoy this new chapter. Happy reading!

Rey

Chapter 9

The huge, airy room was empty. Wenlach was going out, after she had warned her charge – quite sternly – not to do any mischief while she was gone. Harry pouted. What mischief could he do? There was nothing in sight that could be used for any, and he was seldom in the mind for pranking people in the first place. Besides, the Elf-woman had positioned him on the middle of a huge soft, springy bed, and it was not that easy navigating across it. He had not had enough time practising walking these days, given how the Elves loved to carry him around, so it was nearly impossible to run across the soft, springy mattress. This body was so… awkward. So light and agile, so small and fragile-looking yet strong at the same time.

And his unnatural hearing… It was maddening. He was thankful that he had taught himself occlumency after the war, and by now had mastered a rudimentary level of self-awareness and the betterment of his self-control. Right now, the sounds of the outside world teased him mercilessly. Oh how he longed to play under the cold sunlight before it went away…

Not that he could not see during the night, as he had proven countless times now. He just loved the sun, not the *(1)stars. Gandalf said not yet, but Harry was not sure.

Gandalf.

An idea struck him. He was a wizard. He had been, so why should he stop being one now? He was not about to renounce his identity that fully. Whoever had dumped him in this misery had not taken his magic – and hopefully would never do so. He had to make use of it.

The small pack containing his belongings was laid across from him, on the bedside table. The Elder Wand he had been using had been stowed by Wenlach there *(2)two days ago, alongside his used T-shirt and jeans trousers (in whose left front pocket his miniaturised trunk and package were stowed). He had not had any reason to use it since then, that was why. Now he did.

Hmm. But the package peaked his curiosity as well, now that he remembered Frodo having given him that… He had never touched it after shrinking it in their farewell in front of Bag End. Frodo had told him to open the package alone. And now Harry was alone. There were neither Elven voices nor Elven footsteps in the hall outside the room. Safe enough.

Grinning, he pulled the pack until it fell on the bed, and began to rummage in side for the jeans trousers. Hopefully Wenlach had not removed the things in the pocket, or brought the garment away to be laundered.

Ah. Found.

He yanked the folded trousers out of the pack with gleeful triumph. His left hand searched in the pack for the wand while the other fumbled with the trousers in search of the right pocket.

There.

He took out both the mini trunk and package, then tapped the package lightly with the tip of the Elder Wand. It returned to its normal size almost instantly. And at the same moment, Harry forsook the wand to struggle with the thin leather thong tying up the wrapping of the package and the oilcloth wrapping itself. After all, he did not have a cause to worry anymore about why he now used more voiceless spells than before, or why he sometimes enacted the magic only by pure intention. He had been doing that since his arrival to this strange world, and had ceased thinking about it when it appeared that he would never get any answer from anything or anyone.

Besides, now there was Frodo's mysterious package to occupy his mind.

And when the rather-complicated wrapping was finally unruffled and laid aside, he uttered a spontaneous squeal in delight while bouncing and clapping his hands. Wooden carvings! Wooden figurines of Bilbo, Frodo, Gandalf, Lagoryn the mare, and… who was it? The tiny being was very cute and beautiful, but rather unearthly and all in all did not even resemble Pippin – the youngest hobbit he had ever met, who according to Frodo was twelve years old.

He set aside the strange carving, and instead chose to scrutinise the ones of Frodo and Bilbo. It had only been a week since he had left the Shire, but already he missed the two bachelors living in Bag End. Staring at the uncanny likenesses of the hobbits now, he wished that they could talk back to him. As it was, the only thing he could do was to put preservation and protection spells on all the carvings and imagine that they were alive.

Feeling playful, and encouraged by the sense that there was no one watching him, Harry forwent his plan to sneak outside. He instead lay on his belly on the bed, toying with the wooden figurines. Sometimes he included the strange tiny being, but most of the times that particular carving was set aside, since he did not know to whose likeness it had been carved. Later, as he acquainted himself more with the toys, the aimless play became a small game of drama, and he was enraptured by it.

He had forgotten how he had enjoyed playing with small toys like that. He had snuck Dudley's broken toys into his cupboard when he had been little, and played with them until his aunt found out, spanked him severely, and ordered him to return them to Dudley's second bedroom. He had never tried sneaking out toys afterwards, and always made sure that he played without anyone witnessing it.

Thus, his drama ended abruptly when his ears caught the soft footsteps approaching the bedroom, and the faint sound of Wenlach and Gildor talking. He threw the toys haphazardly on top of the cloth, then rolled it back up, not bothering with the leather thong at all. He shrank the dishevelled package, then jammed it into the trousers' pocket alongside the still-miniaturised trunk.

He forgot that his hearing was now times stronger and sharper than it had been. A long moment had passed before someone knocked at his door. But that was just as well, for he needed time to calm his breathing and arratic heartbeats. When the two Elves materialised in his view, Harry plastered a – genuine enough – smile for them.

Gildor's eyes were latched on his, as the Elf-man frowned slightly, apparently suspecting that Harry was staging an act to fool the adults. But Wenlach's were roaming the room, and in a second she was standing by the bed, plucking something from atop the somewhat-rumpled sheets. "You have been playing, little one?" she queried. "Where are your other toys? Or have you made this yourself?" Her tone became amused as she continued, "I did not know how vain you could be, Laegnor. You carved your own likeness yourself, did you not?" She showed the item she had taken to the males. It was the tiny, unearthly being Harry had not recognised.

Himself?

His eyes wide, Harry denied truthfully. "No, I didn't." He reached out a hand, silently asking for the carving. He looked at it disbelievingly, scrutinising the features of the figurine with an air of detachment, and also fear.

Gildor broke the silence. "Laegnor?" When no response was forthcoming, he continued, "Have you ever seen yourself in a reflective surface? Water, perhaps?"

Harry shook his head. He looked up just in time to catch the two Elves exchanging concerned stares. An unknown anger bubbled up in him, and he quickly looked down again. He was not really in the mood for any kind of tantrum. He was upset, and he wanted to be alone to digest this new – terrifying – discovery.

Unfortunately, it seemed that he would not be let to himself for some more time. Gildor did leave him after putting a large package by the pack on the bedside table, saying that he wanted to take a bath, but Wenlach remained. "Time for you to take your own bath, little one," she said in response to Harry's questioning stare, while seating herself beside him. There was a level of reticence in her – or perhaps just thoughtfulness – when regarding him that Harry, surprisingly, did not like. But it was overridden by his dislike of someone's watching him bathe.

Two Elf-women and three Elf-men filed in not long after. The women carried a metal tub between them, while the men each carried two buckets of water in their hands. They set their burdens on an unoccupied corner of the spacious room, then, nearly as one, turned around and swept their gazes across the chamber. Harry instinctively shrank against Wenlach's side and ducked his head.

One of the Elf-women sighed ruefully. "Is he always like that, Wenlach?" she asked. Harry did not look up to gauge what the silence meant; but apparently Wenlach shook her head, because then the Elf-woman sighed again and conceded, "Well, I am a stranger anyway. But I hope to make your acquaintance soon, little one."

Soon soft footfalls drifted into his ears, leaving the room. Only then Harry came out of his cocoon and looked around warily. The tub in the corner was large enough for his tiny frame, and more than deep enough. He would have much trouble navigating around for soap and so on… And then came the chore of pouring the water into the tub. Was there no bathing house here? He had ever read that people in the medieval ages had such building in each small settlement, for communal use. It would have been easier, instead of this luxury – which now did not seem like a luxury at all. He pouted.

"Time to bathe, child." Wenlach interjected his thoughts. Harry jolted. The Elf-woman was tugging at the bottom of his shrunken T-shirt. He peeped, surprised. So Wenlach would bathe him? It was a mortifying notion for a man. He vaguely remembered bathed by Wenlach, but he had been more than half-unconscious at that time, unlike now.

The hands left his clothing instantly, as if stung. Harry was now torn between guilt and relief. Wenlach's intention was good, but—

"Would you let me take care of you?"

Well, it was what he had been thinking about so far, was it not?

The tone was so baffled, lost, and it hurt his heart somehow. Was this how he paid her efforts so far? And he could not do many things in his current body anyhow, so he would still need much assistance in the future.

Well, not only in the future, but also now.

With a half-defeated, half-frustrated sigh, he wiggled close to her, practically pressing himself into her arms, and let her carry him across the bedroom. She had a towel slung over a shoulder, and when she set him down beside the tub, the towel was dropped on his lap. She poured the steaming contents of two nearest buckets carefully into the tub, then wandered off in search of bathing paraphernalia. All the while, Harry's eyes latched on her, and a sinking feeling filled his stomach. Had he offended her?

He ducked his head when she turned around and came back. She undressed him in silence, then spread a thick towel on the patch of wooden tile where he stood. He leant into her when she lifted him up into the tub, trying to convey his apology and wish to amend the situation. His embarrassment of being bathed by a woman was overridden by his desire to please her, to make her happy.

And, as time went on, the embarrassment was replaced by contentment. He had forgotten how he had missed this, although he had only been bathed by her once. He clung to her, in a languid sort of way, even when she was towelling his body and hair dry, and she did not seem to mind it a bit. Hmm. So she had not been offended after all?

She paused, though, after that. She held out a hand-spun simple brown woollen shift, short-sleeved and knee-long, and just stared at it with unreadable expression. Harry padded to her and peered at the shift. "I wear that?" he asked. When she stiffened and looked away, he hummed questioningly.

"Children in my community, the Laegrim, wear this," she said in a murmur.

"Oh. Then I won't really look like a girl… yes?" He peered up uncertainly at her. She laughed, but it sounded half-hearted.

"What's wrong?" Concerned, he hopped on to her lap and seated himself there, not caring that he was still naked. "No mind. You said it's the usual." He tugged at her tunic with a hand and reached out for the shift with the other. He had always loved Mrs. Weasley's jumpers, and he was not about to dislike hand-spun clothes now, especially one as good as this.

"I made it myself." Hmm. Was that embarrassment in her voice? Harry did not look up, to save her dignity.

"Then? It's good. I like it," he confessed sincerely. Now he tried another tactic. He crouched on her lap and ducked under the garment, trying to fit his head into it.

Wenlach laughed, and this time it sounded much more genuine. Harry grinned, but went on with his effort. He had just discovered that the inside of the shift was covered by thick, smooth cotton, and so he would not be bothered by the itch of new wool. She relented to his persistence at length and helped him into the shift, still chuckling. But not a moment after she sobered up and said quietly, "My knitting skill is better than my cooking tricks, little one, but the quality is still below what other ellyth can come up with. I am sorry if later this embarrasses you. I would not mind if you decided not to use it anymore." She did not meet his eyes.

Harry frowned. "I like it," he persisted. "Why heed what people say? It's warm. It's good." He wrapped his arms around Wenlach's neck and hugged her close, the first one he ever iniciated with anyone in this new world. Perhaps she was taken aback, for her arms only reciprocated the embrace seconds later, when he was beginning to wonder if he had done the right thing. But she did not seem to mind at all, and Harry was happy with that; happy that he at last had someone to express love to. Familiarising himself with it would take much time, but now he would no longer fret so much about it.

Wenlach put a pair of soft leather shoes on his feet. When he asked why, she said, "Little ones cannot go bare-footed this early in the spring." Harry was incredulous, although he tried his best to hide it from her. He never meant to go anywhere bare-footed! He had meant to ask why he did not wear the boots instead. But now that she spoke of it, the notion of testing his endurance against the cold sounded good in his mind. Hmm…

She ushered him to the door, and there they met with Gildor, freshly bathed and attired in a leisurely set of tunic and breeches. The Elf-man was bare-footed, Harry found out – with a healthy amount of surprised fascination. He cooed a startled "Oh" and looked wide-eyed at the pair of appendages.

Wenlach put his hand in Gildor's, then excused herself before anyone could say anything, and the Elf-man visibly drooped. Still, they heard her barely-contained chuckles over the bend in the hall. Gildor grumbled. Harry giggled guiltily.

"Now scamper off you, little imp, or do you want me to carry you?" he asked. As an answer, Harry pulled his hand free from the Elf-man's and did the former. He wondered why Gildor gave him options now while no one had offered him such courtesy before, yet he was reluctant to ask, in fear of either offending the Elf-man or prompting the said Elf to continue carrying him around again. His gait was not yet steady in this too-light, too-fleet and too-agile body, but he felt free nonetheless and believed that he would soon learn if left to practise his limbs like now.

Gildor followed him from behind while occasionally giving directions. He caught Harry around the waist and perched him in his arms, though, when Harry was about to descend the stairs. On the protesting noise he uttered, the Elf-man said, "Not now, little imp. I saw that you are not yet firm on your feet. As Wenlach would have said, you can walk on the earth when you have mastered the branches. Well, but seeing that she is a Silvan, I would advise you to practise walking on the earth first." He grinned. Harry's annoyance melted away and he grinned as well.

On hindsight, he was thankful of this small protection, because they passed many Elves in the first level of the big wooden-and-stone house, all of whom wished to see him for themselves. He was no longer cloaked and hooded, so he could only bury his head in the nook of Gildor's neck and among the Elf-man's thick, long sleek raven hair. Like the men and women who had visited his bedroom, they sighed in disappointment – and sometimes, sadness. But for now, he could not care less.

Gildor did not put him down when they were finally outdoors. When Harry asked, the Elf-man told him that they were going to a nice place and visit nice people. When Harry – tentatively – whinged, the Elf-man just stared pointedly at him, but with a smile to temper it down. Harry sighed and snuggled deeper in Gildor's embrace. No practise till later, then.

They went deeper into the wooded area nearby a river – perhaps the one they had crossed earlier in the morning. Sounds of Elven singing drifted softly into Harry's ears; comforting, welcoming, warming. He smiled and closed his eyes, cuddling to Gildor willingly this time. If there was ever a true lullaby, then this one was. It felt so soothing and yet so natural. Wenlach's wordless songs felt that way when she deigned to sing to him… Perhaps these Elves were of her people – the Laegrim?

The singing became louder the deeper Gildor walked into the woods. (Harry wondered to himself how deep the woods was, meanwhile, because it seemed thin from the outside.) Then, smoothly, it changed both in cadence and words. Now it told about a pair of squirrels and an apple tree, in what Harry suspected was a *(3)sung poem. There was a trace of haunting melody in it, which he supposed was the trait of all Elven singing, but the lightness and humor were clearly visible. He giggled, in pure merriment. He ignored how Gildor's shoulders jerked slightly in surprise, and instead tried to sing along when the hidden Elves repeated the odd chanting, with a low tone at first. It seemed just… the natural thing to do.

There was a very faint rustle from up ahead when he came to the end of the repeated song. Then someone spoke, a little more formally than Harry had ever heard from the Elves so far, although not lacking in warmth. "Greetings, outsiders." The language was a little weird in Harry, who by now was used to the tongue of the Grey Elves spoken by the wandering band and – sometimes – Gandalf. It sounded rather close to Sindarin, but not—

Silvan?

Ah. Yes. Gandalf had included that language in their exchange, although the Wizard only recalled little about it, having rarely the occasion to apply it in conversation, and thus Harry's knowledge was also limited. He wished to remedy that. Besides, if he could get those Wood-Elves to sing for him again…

He peeked over his shoulder, meeting the merry sea-green eyes of the Elf greeting them, then hid his face again in his usual nook, giggling softly. He was feeling very childish, and he could not stop it. Many things had stoked it up here, when he was fully among the Elves, completing the rising feeling which had begun when he had ridden on Gildor's shoulders. He did not know if it was a bad development, still, but, like before, he was intent on getting along with it. After all, if he got to laugh so often like this… There had seldom been a reason to laugh when he had been another person.

Another world.

No-no! Not yet… He would not taint this moment of happiness with any negative emotions.

As if sensing his feeling (And perhaps they could?), the song picked up again, now telling about clear starlit pools, merry young trees and little woodland creatures. Relieved and thankful, Harry scrambled out of his hideout and sat up in Gildor's arms, grinning. In the end of the song, Gildor asked softly, "Would it be all right if I left you awhile here, little one? I wish to explore this area, by the permission of its occupants of course." His eyes turned towards the lone Elf sitting on a protruding tree root up ahead, who had greeted them. The indirect addressee smiled and nodded, while rising up from his knobbly bench and stretching his arms whide invitingly. Harry nodded as well to the inquiry, although somewhat uncertainly. Regardless of how friendly and fun they look, those Silvan Elves were new to him, unlike Gildor, and thus he was cautious, especially in this fragile body which he was not yet accustomed to.

Regardless, Gildor plopped him down into the other Elf's lap, kissed the top of his head, and quickly left, melting into the surrounding trees. Mmh. Why did Gildor treat him this way in front of people? And he included a stranger in it! Embarrassing. Then again, he might have had a hand in this, with all his childishness. Mmh. He might just as well act away…

Besides, now the sea-green-eyed Elf was singing again while cradling him snugly in the other's arms. The 'magic' of the singing felt much more tangible in this way, and Harry soon forgot himself in it.

The singing was picked by other Elves in the trees then, while Harry's new minder taught him to play with his fingers. This was new to Harry. Perhaps Gandalf had never babysat any Elven children both in the Undying Lands and Middle-Earth, and thus the Wizard did not know about this little learning game. "Atya… Emya… Hanno… Nettë… Winimo." He was so immersed in the game that he no longer minded his manners. He squealed with unbridled delight when he bested his minder, whinged when he lost (which was often), and squeak-giggled when his minder unexpectedly tickled his hands or sides.

The reality only came back – but with a vengeance – when the Elf-man asked for his name. Harry bit his lip and looked down at his hands, which were intertwined with the much-larger ones of his minder. What should he say? Should he give his original name, or the name Wenlach had given him? Should he cling to "Harry," while he was no longer a man and a Secondborn? It sounded… wrong.

He had no time to really think about it. Already, his minder began to feel restless, judging from the faint emotion he caught in what he called 'extra sense'. So, surrendering to the inevitable, he murmured, "Laegnor."

"A good name," the Elf-man conceded, after a moment's silence. Now was Harry's turn to be restless. But, unlike his minder, he showed it by fidgeting; unable to contain himself.

"S'your name?" he at last blurted, when the Elf-man stood up, Harry perching in his arms. His minder paused from caressing his back. Harry tensed. Had he said the wrong thing? Or was the Elf-man just unprepared as he had been on that same subject? But—

"Child, you are the first one I ever meet who constantly frets like a troubled adult."

How true it was, and yet how unbelievable.

Harry released a soft breath through his nose. Hesitantly, he put his head on his minder's shoulder and draped an arm on the other, refusing to comment on the statement.

"As for my name…" The Elf-man seemed to be mulling over some options in his mind, before finally saying, "Dóritháró. You may call me Dórith if your tongue and lips cannot yet pronounce it well. Most people outside my own usually call me thus anyway. It would much gladden my heart if someday you could speak the tongue of the Wood Elves well, though. You have many of our talents in you, and I would be glad indeed to adopt you into our community."

The conversation he attempted afterwards failed, ending up in the same lame silence the matter of names had brought them into. Harry hated this awkwardness. He wanted the Elves to sing again, but they had also fallen silent. Dórith was likewise, in the end. Fate was so irritating, he groused to himself. One moment he was happy and the other he was cornered into unpleasant situations. Then again, he wished Dórith would have asked him something other than "What is your favourite play?" or "What is your favourite toy?" or "What is your favourite dish?" The questions he could answer had their responses containing activities or items related to his old existence, while the others… Well, the finger-game was his first real childish play, so what was he supposed to say? He had too little experience in his Mannish childhood to even make up convincing enough answers.

But maybe he could coax his minder to teach him more games? That could also distract the both of them from their current predicament.

They broke away from the woods by then, and a ghust of wintry breeze greeted them alongside the failing sunlight. The lawn stretched beyond the treeline to the very borders of the Last Homely House. Now that he really saw the chance, Harry was quite tantelised by the idea of running across the expanse of dry grass and frolicking around. Apparently Dórith had similar idea, for the Elf-man put him down on the edge of the lawn and nudged his back gently. But Harry only stood there unmoving instead, unsure of his ability to run in this unfamiliar body. What would he say if Dórith caught him tripping over his own foot or wobbling along instead of running? Elves were supposed to be graceful, no?

Then something with a dull point nudged his back, before it – Dórith's nose? – sniffed the side of his neck, making him feel quite tickled. He squealed, and, hoping to avoid more, ran as fast as he could. Away from the treeline. Judging from the scampering sound behind him, his assailant was following him – with ease, although he was probably doing it on all-fours in order to match Harry's height. Harry shrieked and laughed freely. His face was warm from all the laughter, and his body felt like flying, although he could still sense the slight limp his unaccustomed legs produced. The wind blew on him, but it felt – strangely – just cool on his skin.

There was no way he could feel scared, because he could sense playfulness and amusement radiating from the pursuer… and it was indeed Dórith. He did not know why a grown Elf-man would indulge him in this little game, demeaning his own age, but he certainly loved it. And for once, he did not really care if someone saw it. He had to enjoy it to the fullest, anyway, before anyone had a chance to take it away from him.

As a bonus, Wenlach was standing on the side porch of the house, clad in a green-and-brown woollen dress and bare-footed, and she appeared to be waiting for him. She was laughing merrily while beckoning at him! He had never seen her this beautiful or this free, just like her loose brown locks which bounced from side to side when she shook her head in obvious – mildly incredulous – amusement.

Once near, he jumped, intending to launch himself into her welcoming arms. He squealed with surprise delight when it brought him higher, and Wenlach had to catch him mid-fall. He had misjudged his strength. But now he was safe, so he made himself comfortable in her embrace before twisting around to see Dórith.

The Elf-man was grinning at him, his sea-green eyes twinkling warmly, and behind him, another set of laughter broke as Gildor darted out of the woods, chased by two other Elves. Were all grown-up Elves like children? Then Harry supposed he could be thus as well… After all, he had company.

Footnote:

*(1) Elves awakened under the stars, loved the stars, and associated themselves with the stars. Stars were a big part of their lives and cultures. Men, on the other hand, awakened under the sun, drew strength and hope from the sun, and naturally loved the sun.

*(2) See the first drabble in Laegnar: Moments in Life (Fire) for more of what happened "two days ago" in Harry's life there.

*(3) Sung poem:  
lay (plural lays): noun [13th century. Old French lai]  
1. poem for singing: a short narrative poem that is sung  
2. song: a medieval lyric or narrative song  
(taken from Microsoft Student Premium Dictionaries 2009)

Translation  
Ellyth: female Elves (Sindarin)  
Dóritháró: Saviour of the Land (Nandorin)  
Laegrim: Green-Elves (Sindarin)

Additional notes:

Gildor was a Ñoldo, yes, but Finrod was rather close to the Laiquendi (Green Elves) in Sirion, so it would just be logical that his adopted son was also close to them. In my 'universe', the Silvan Elves dwelling in the woods of Rivendell had a long history, reaching much further than Sirion, so Gildor most likely had known them for a long time; perhaps even befriended them.

Regarding the children finger game, I found no obvious equal of it in the Sindarin dictionary I have, so I use its Quenya form. After all, most of Quenya are derived from Eldarin, the base language of the Elves, even more than Sindarin, although some are influenced by Valarin. They are Daddy (Atya, thumb), Mummy (Emya, index finger), Brother (hanno, middle finger), sister (nettë, ring finger), and baby (winimo, pinky finger).

Dórith concealed many things, hence his reluctance to speak of his name. I guess he also deliberated about which name to give Harry, just as Harry did. I might use him at some point in the future; or perhaps in the next chapter. What do you think?


	11. Chapter 10

Author's Notes:

This chapter is told in general point of view sprinkled with the points of view of various people involved in it. Change of accents and point of views is indicated by different terms or names. For general usage, 'English' (Westron, actually) is applied. Please tell me if the different words distract you, and I will try to come up with a different way. It would be nice if you could suggest something to solve the problem, though. And I am sorry for the shortness of the chapter and long wait. I was swamped with works, again, and barely had time to even upload existing chapters (or in the real case, drabbles). I am participating in Back to Middle-Earth Month this year, so my time will be eaten up even more, but I will try my best to update soon. The next chapter should be rather interesting, after all, and my muse may be motivated enough for that. ;)

The number of reviews, alerts, view count and community picks this story has received is astounding. I cannot say "Thank you" enough for you all. None of my works has been this popular before. I hope I will never let you down. Thank you for your support and encouragement, criticisms and suggestions. You all have contributed much in motivating me. (But, to be honest, all those numbers in the story stats for Crystal Green still look like a dream to me.)

Special acknowledgements to: , lex1621, Vanime18431, Gladoo89, Ufoundjohn, AnimeIceFox, Obscure Stranger, Kanberry, Mabidiso, shadow patronus, LilyJames addict, Childofthekng, TutelaTwin, and sarah999. Thank you very much for your reviews!

Umm. Two people – I think – asked for a direct scene or flashback about the meeting in the chapter before last, which occurred just after Gildor and his company arrived at Rivendell. If more people vote for this, I will consider making a one-shot out of it (since the meeting is out of the context of this story). I will try to upload some drabbles for Laegnar: Moments in Life, but I cannot really promise you that. Hopefully I will have time soon – to update some editing to this story as well.

The last part of this chapter – and its continuation in the next one – has been requested by aikenichi11, from her review for Laegnar: Moments in Life. For reference, please read Piece 2 of the collection. And by the way, the language used here is Sindarin, with various dialects.

That all said, enjoy!

Rey

Chapter 10

"You are far past your childhood, Eldór."

Gildor stopped pacing and fidgeting on the balcony of the bedroom intended for Wenlach and her little charge. Dóritháró was standing on the curtained arch leading into the bedroom proper, a soft teasing smile on the Nando's face. When the Ñoldo's attention was all focused on him, he said, "Cease fidgeting and come with me. We are to attend a meeting in Elrond's study. He has persuaded the Istro to reveal some things about Legnâr's past to all parties concerned. Perhaps the Istro managed to wheedle that poor child into consenting."

Gildor bristled. But before he could say anything, Dóritháró raised a hand to forestall him, and beckoned him into the bedroom.

"Last I knew, you were not in very good terms with the Istro," he resumed, in a level tone tinged with a slight curiosity, when Gildor grudgingly left the balcony. "Now you wished to defend him. Or was it Legnâr that you wished to defend?"

"Sinderáno and I are never enemies, if that is what you wished to aim for by that statement." The Ñoldo glared in a half-hearted manner. Dóritháró chuckled sadly, his countenance sobering.

"You cannot fault him for what the Belain decided, young one," he murmured, as he put a hand on Gildor's tense shoulder, just like when in the Ñoldo's youth in Sirion and Ossiriand. The topic was a sore one for Gildor, and it had been so since he had been old enough to understand why he and his kin could not flee the war-torn land of lost Beleriand.

"We are not enemies," Gildor insisted; but it was as if he wanted to confirm it to himself. Dóritháró sighed but did not pursue the topic anymore. They were exiting the bedroom and into the hall, and here everyone could not be faulted for overhearing.

He led his younger counterpart down the hall to Elrond's chambers. But the lord of the land was outside the said chambers, arguing softly with Gandalf. They only stopped when the two newcomers got within hearing range. Gildor raised his eyebrows at the Half-Elf and the Wizard, inquiring.

None of them answered the unspoken question. Instead, Elrond beckoned the three guests into his flat and went in himself afterwards, waiting politely in his study – on the right-side-going-in of the door. When the four of them were seated comfortably around the large oaken desk in the middle of the room, he stared pointedly at Gandalf and said, "We are gathered here, as you may have been informed, to discuss about Laegnor's origin, present arrangements, and possible future paths." Then he indicated the Wizard to begin. He seemed both eager and reluctant to breech the topic; and so was Gandalf, because the Wizard returned the stare two folds its intensity.

Gildor sighed inwardly. It would be a long day, he thought to himself. Beside him, Dóritháró was thinking about the comforts of his talen and woods, and Legnâr who was probably playing either alone or with Wenlach. And, while Elrond was hoping to start the meeting as soon as possible in order to get rid of it just as quickly, Gandalf rued that he was the centre of the said meeting. He did not mind the attention; if only it was not about Harí…

However, the meeting was indeed inevitable…

"We are here to discuss about Harí's life, indeed," the Wizard began after a series of small dry coughs. When Elrond and Dóritháró looked shocked by the name, he smiled grimly. "Harí is the child's real name. Wenlach proposed a new name after hearing the name for the first time."

"It is a Mannish name," Elrond said weakly, confused and not yet free from the shock. Gandalf looked at him gravely, meaningfully. The Half-Elf's eyes widened slightly and stayed that way for a moment. "How could he come with that name?"

"He was raised by Men." True enough, and perhaps it was what had occupied Elrond's mind.

"How?" The three Elves in the room chorused, with varying degrees of incredulity and curiosity. The Wizard stifled an urge to laugh out loud. He could not afford their being distracted, now that the topic was in the open, so he must stifle his feelings for the time being. It would be hard to resume this rather unpleasant subject, once they were sidetracked.

But, before he could say anything, Elrond asked, "Where is the child now?"

"He is with Wenlach, I believe?" Gildor stared at Dóritháró, who nodded thoughtfully.

The Nando then spoke up. "Should we not invite her into this meeting? She knows Legnâr more than any of us do." A dip of Gildor's head confirmed his assessment.

"If so, then we should invite Erestor as well, for he has had much experience with young charges in… unique… circumstances," Elrond piped in after a moment of uneasy thinking. "What say you, Mithrandir?"

Gandalf frowned, then said sternly, "I would suggest Glorfindel to attend also, if you insist on discussing about the child's future, since he is knowledgeable of discrete strategies and security matters. But no one else are to even know of this meeting until the time is right. I would like to avoid having the possible ramifications dumped on us all at once."

A messenger – a passing Elf in the hall – was dispatched to find the three people mentioned. And meanwhile, the study fell into an uncomfortable silence. Gildor was finding out that having his guess proven right was not always pleasant. Dóritháró, who had little dealing with Men-kind, chafed on the thought of an Elfling raised by the Secondborn, and said Elfling was a boon one-thousand-and-five-hundred years in waiting no less. Elrond was troubling over a similar idea, while Gandalf was fretting about what he should reveal to the meeting. Harí had indeed given him permission to talk, but very reluctantly. That weighed on his conscience, added to the worst possible outcome: that the forces of the Elves were bound to retaliate to any of the Secondborn for what a select few of them had done to a prized member of their community. Both seemed undesirable: revealing all information and withholding the more sensitive parts – which was unfortunately the root of the predicament. When he had agreed to go to Middle-earth, he had never thought that he would have the slightest possibility to get involved in such a private matter, and one about an object as tightly guarded as an Elfling as well.

The weather outside was bright and clear, for once in this week. Dóritháró found his eyes drifted to the door now and again, while his thoughts stayed with Legnâr. Not for the first time, he wondered if he could stoke the potentials he had seen in the child, raising the toddler into a full-fledged Wood-Elf. But then those proud and stiff Deep-Elves and Grey-Elves would protest, he was sure of it, and what would the child himself say to that? No, as much as the idea tantelised him, he could not do anything except to wait for Legnâr to make the first move.

Legnâr, who had been raised by the decendents of the crude Secondborn he had briefly hosted in the First Age, who might not realise subtle gestures for what they tried to convey… And anyhow, he was yet too young for such game.

Gildor, sitting beside the Nando, was no less restless than he was, although for a slightly different reason. He had seen how Laikanáro, who had been in the keeping of his company this last week, reacted badly to the most innocent of gestures. Guessing about what must have happened had already felt horrible to him; he could not imagine how it would feel if – or when – Sinderáno revealed the fact. His only consolation was that Wenlach would brave through it with him, together with everyone else from the Wandering Company.

After all, perhaps he had been exaggerating his feeling about the situation?

Rather unlikely, but his mind refused to think otherwise.

And all thoughts fled his mind when Wenlach entered, closely followed by Erestor and Lord Laurefindil. Lord Dóritháró vacated his seat and gestured Wenlach to fill it, even as the returning messenger bustled in search of three more chairs from the surrounding rooms – on Elrond's permission.

In just a moment, the seven people were ensconced comfortably around the large desk. Six Elves were waiting for the one – hapless – Maia to begin; and they were not so patient about it, judging from the looks they gave Gandalf.

The Wizard retaliated.

"Harí was not from the race of Elves, and neither is he from this age."

Wenlach's face fell into her hands, while she uttered a small sound caught between a choke and a squeak. Gildor, Glorfindel, Erestor and Elrond stared wide-eyed at the Wizard, their faces pale with shock. Dóritháró narrowed his eyes and gazed pointedly at the grains on the aged wood of the desk, his expression was of mingled incredulity, surprise,, great befuddlement, and stubborn denial.

Gandalf himself, after dropping the bombshell, did not feel the smugness he should have felt, however briefly; guilt assailed him instead. The announcement had been so casual, too casual. After all, Harry was seen as an Elfling fifteen long years in waiting by all the Elves assembled. To say that he was originally not an Elf at all must be perceived as a cruel joke.

He cleared his throat, while mentally beating himself. He had been so callous and childish in his retaliation, beyond the limits of simple gruffness. A mere apology would not suffice. Now, more than ever, those Firstborn deserved to know the background of his statement.

The six Elves jolted in their seats, but said nothing. The emotions in their eyes and faces were replaced by blank masks. The Wizard exhaled an inward sigh of resignation.

"I am sorry, my friends, for saying so without any adequate explanation or warning," he said. "Please let me begin again by saying that the child is really not what he appears to be. He apparently has come from very far into the future of this world, and he was brought here by unknown means, with only vague feelings as warning before his departure. I theorise that the Allfather might have a hand on this, since the Powers cannot reach that far into the future; a future in which Lord Námo might not have even known the probable details of."

Elrond clutched at the arms of his chair, his muscles tight underneath the calm façade he projected. He had thought that Laegnor – no, he refused to call the child "Harí" – had somehow been transported from the past, when Mithrandir had announced that said child had come from another age. It was a bizarre idea too big for his mind to wrap itself around. And he had rarely felt this vulnerable in his long, sorrow-and-surprise-riddled life. What was the meaning of all this? What was Laegnar's presence intended to do to the Firstborn, and perhaps Arda of this age in general?

He stared sharply, imploringly, at the Ithron sitting to his immediate right. But, again, Mithrandir ignored him.

Gildor fiddled with his hands on the desk, while his eyes roamed around its wooden surface in the same restless fashion. He tried his best not to steal glances at Wenlach, but he barely managed that feat. If Sinderáno's assessment was right, how would Laikanáro live his life after this? It was apparent that he had no family in this timeline – although he wished the child had, just so he could seek revenge on whoever had broken the little one's innocence. Who would raise Laikanáro? The child must not be permitted to raise himself, although Gildor did not doubt his capability to do so; after all, Sinderáno's aim – and his own – was to let Laikanáro have a second childhood. He could just go with the wandering band when they left… No, it was too dangerous; he could not live with them, however much Gildor hoped so. But if he was raised in Elrond's house, a sort of political argument might arise. They could not afford the remaining Elven realms tugging at each other for an Elfling's attention in these dark times, and Laikanáro might not like the attention rained on him anyway.

A hand clamped down lightly on his, binding his wrists. Startled from his reverie, Gildor looked up.

Right into Lord Dóritháró's all-too-knowing sea-green eyes. Oh how he always despised that look… Typically Silvan, and unavoidable. And the age-old knowledge and understanding contained in those orbs always made him feel like a misbehaving or overcurious Elfling, too.

Their brief staring contest raised an idea in the Ñoldo's mind, and he blurted, "Could you please raise Laikanáro, my lord?"

The Nando could not hide his surprise and a glimmer of hope from disturbing his calm countenance. "What were you thinking about, Eldór?" he said, with an underlying warning in his quiet tone. Gildor looked away and shook his head. Lord Dóritháró was right to admonish him. He had been thoughtless in his words and dealt the matter with similar carelessness. Many parties, motives and purposes were involved in this deceptively-simple case, and there was no short cut through it. Valar – He had taken that particular trouble into account in his considerations just now!

"Cease your fretting, child."

Dóritháró smiled. Gildor stared sullenly at him, before he remembered in whose company he was and tried to do a damage control over the situation. "It was just a thought," he said to the assembly, who looked unconvinced. Elrond suggested for the Elfling they had been talking about to be introduced officially to the Elven communities, in hope that the leaders of the said communities then could decide the child's future for him. Gandalf winced and quickly objected to the reasoning, although he provided no cause to it. Erestor, seeing the Wizard's vehement reaction and deducing the reasoning behind it, recommended that the child be let to travel to the existing Elven realms instead and choose in whose care he would like to be. But Glorfindel, despite his agreement that Laegnor should be allowed to choose for himself, objected to the child's travelling anywhere with the danger of prowling orcs and wargs in abundance. Those foul creatures would be eager to get their filthy hands – or paws – on a young Elf-child, he surmised grimly, and Sauron would be delighted to let them have him – short of killing him – in order to take him as ransom for the Firstborn's submission to his power.

The discussion soon turned into an argument, and, in the middle of it, an Elf – the messenger from before – barged in with just a knock on the door to the study to announce his presence, his face ashen.

"My lords, my lady," he stammered, "an Elven child was seen paddling in a strange contraption on the large pond in the forested area to the east." He gulped visibly once, then continued in a more subdued voice, not looking at anyone, "Is it true, that an Elfling has been born recently?" The question of why there had not been any announcement regarding it hung unspoken in the end. Unfortunately for him, no one deigned to answer.

Wenlach, bored out of her mind from the meeting, snapped instantly into attention on the news. Then, without preamble, she shot out of her seat and streaked out of the door, passing the startled messenger only by a hair's breath. Dóritháró and Gildor followed suit, leaving Elrond, Glorfindel, Erestor and Gandalf in the study with the bemused ellon.

The Lord of Rivendell let his face fell into his hands and groaned in a very un-lordly manner. Gandalf sighed despairingly. Glorfindel tasked the poor messenger with calming his fellow Elves. Meanwhile, Erestor, on his way out of the study, muttered, "Damage control."


	12. Chapter 11

Author's Notes:

All right. It has been more than months. :ashamed: I am truly sorry, people. I have been buried alive by real life, as per 12th July 2010 I am a new teacher in a new special school for the blind. Thank you, still, for all your attention, critiques, reviews… In the end, they are what have nudged me to work swifter and more efficiently on the revision of this story.

Yes, this story has been revised. Please reread it from the first chapter. (There were added/changed parts, aside from personalities.) I shall finish the revision, then update with a new one. Hopefully, it shall not take too long. If you wish to comment about a new part/chapter but cannot do so via the review area, please just send me an E-mail or PM. And now, here is the next revised instalment. (It was Chapter 9 of the unedited story.)

Thank you: aikenichi11, AnimeIceFox, hentai18ancilla, charlie-becks, Weasel Fu, Vanime18431, yamiyugi23, , Jada, mabidiso, Luiniliel, TutelaTwin, Obscure Stranger, jgood27, jamester56, Toki Mirage, lex1621, Buddhika, Lord Cornelius Ravencroft, animelover88888888, Secca Irises, Alexiad, niwa-k, and ice Vixen X, for the reviews you have given this chapter. Thank you for those who nudged me to update soon too… :sheepish: You succeeded, buddies. :guilty:

Next chapter: The Shire. Some fun time with the wandering band, mild arguments with Gandalf (perhaps), and busy (*cough cough*) activities with Frodo, Merry, Pippin and Volco.

Till later,  
Rey

Edit: 150th reviewer gets to choose what I shall write for the next two drabbles in Laegnar: Moments in Life.

Chapter 11

The forest running along the banks of the stream was unbelieveably verdant and alive, even more than that Harry had passed so far, although just somewhat. The stream itself chuckled and crooned while pushing his little vessel onwards, and how soothing it was to his ears! He had never picked up such sound before, and never even dreamt that water could sing. Well, to be honest, he had never visited any forest stream before, less to play in it. And now he wondered why he could rather skilfully navigate himself among the stones and boulders littering the waterway… He had never been skilled at that, never even tried; and many of those boulders were bigger than he was.

He was propelled out – rather playfully, he dared say – by the stream to a large pond unveiled by foliage via a waterfall, which made him utter a small squeak in surprise. He blinked, and meanwhile tried to get his conjured inner-tire to the shore, battling against the current. But hey, why did that Elf-man who stood on a far bank gape at him like that? There was nothing wrong with him or anything he did, surely? Well, he did not intend to go there and ask…

He did not have to, apparently, because the Elf-man ran away from the pond's edge then, as if pursued. But his relief was short-lived, as the ellon returned… with reinforcements, and all of them pointed at him, with excited faces which he interpreted as hostile glee… and they approached him, rapidly.

He forsook his toys, and ran into the forest away from the stream. A scream was caught in his throat, never escaping past the wind rushing against his face.

His heart hammered in his chest. Cold sweat ran down his form, even as his body was warm because of all the dashing and hopping and ducking and dodging. He was quicker than his old adult self, but it was not enough. The throng was quicker than he was, and they were all Elves too – adult Elves, to boot. But he could not stop, and now he had lost sense of direction in his panic, and he could not work on magic even though he had brought the Elder Wand with him, because he was too nervous and there was no safe place around—

Singing, familiar singing around him, in the trees…

Harry did not stop, but his profound fear was eased a bit by the soothing sounds. Getting an idea, he searched around and, spying an easy-to-scale tree, he jumped to the lowest branch and worked himself up it clumsily. He settled on the highest branch large enough to support his weight, and only then he allowed himself to relax. He looked at himself and sighed. Surprisingly, the woollen shift that Wenlach had gifted him was not ruined from the awkward climbing, although he had scratched his hands and forearms and elbows and knees during the action. The light leather shoes were similarly undamaged, and now they dangled far above ground.

He should be afraid with how high he was now. But the branch was so secure. And he would swear that he had been aided all along by the tree itself. It was a weird notion. But then again, what was in this new life of his that was not?

The sound of crashing and twig-cracking and grumbling reached his ears. His pursuers, doubling – or perhaps tripling – the number now, were doing a good job in catching up with him. But he was well-concealed among the branches and leaves, and he was silent. He just hoped they could not detect the sounds of his heartbeat and ragged breathing.

The sudden mob had terrified him out of his wits. Now that he was more or less safe from them, though, he thought that his reaction had been rather silly, considering that they had no sharp or binding tools with them. Why had he been afraid? Why was he?

An argument broke below, getting louder and louder, and ended up as—

"Give way, *(1)Dark Elves."

"Say for yourselves, Kinslayers."

*(2)"Refusers. Turned Ones. Leave great matters to your betters."

"Should I call you all babies? Because Legnâr does not even behave like this. And you are also scaring the wildlife out of here. What is their sin against you?"

He could discern Dorith's voice, calm but strained, overlapping with several angry – insulting – voices at once. Elves should have been peaceful creatures, not hot-headed louts. All those noises made him upset and somehow want to cry. He wanted peace. The singing had stopped, and the birds had flown away in the sudden commosion, and he could sense that the trees were similarly disturbed. He wanted the peace back… He hunkered down a bit and retreated deep into himself.

He sang a wordless song, picturing green hills and snow-capped mountains and wide calm lake and sunlit verdant meadow in his mind, trying to console himself. He was the songbird welcoming the morning. He was the dew winking in the rays of the early sun. He was the squirrel chattering while foraging nuts in the forest. He was the merry cool breeze blowing the scent of flowers and rainwashed earth and lush grass…

He was carefully enveloped in an embrace, a woman's embrace.

Wenlach was looking at him with eyes round and a surprised but pleased expression on her face. But she said nothing. Or perhaps she could not say anything. She climbed down the tree with him balancing on one hip, secured in one arm, and he could see that the throng had departed when they arrived on the forest floor. But Dorith, Gildor and other people from the Wandering Company were there, as well as many of the Green Elves – seen from their simple garbs and offended looks.

Wenlach looked questioningly at Dorith, and he said, "They are called by Elrond to the central courtyard." His eyes flickered to Harry then, meaningful and solemn.

Turning away, Harry buried his face into the nook between Wenlach's neck and shoulder, breathing in the scent which was uniquely hers: gentle wind through lively woods. His heart plummeted to the bottom of his belly. Dorith's gesture could mean that every Elf in Rivendell would have known about his existence by now. It was not a comforting notion, at all; it just made him want to go as far away as possible from the valley.

But was he not a Gryffindor at heart? A true Gryffindor, Dumbledore had said.

That life he left behind now seemed so far away, though, unreached, as if a dream. He should have been afraid, he supposed, but right now what he felt was just apathy to everything around him.

It was not for long. Soon the sound of the water grew louder in his ears, and he lifted his head from its resting place. Wenlach had stopped. Before them now stood a pair of Ellyn, their faces and expressions identical one to another.

"Hello, little one," they chorused once his gaze met theirs. "Well met."

"Eladan," said one to his left.

"Elrohir," said the one on the right.

"—Are at your service," they chorused again. Harry just managed not to roll his eyes. They could be Fred and George Weasley in disguise.

He proved it when they wheedled his caretakers to leave him with them for the rest of the day. The twins – Elrond's sons, according to Gildor – then coaxed him into a ceaseless play, composed of various games which challenged his every sense – and apparently more. He was tired and more than a little sore when night fell around the valley. But he also felt full, happy and contented, as if he had eaten a hearty meal – which he had not, since morning. The twins brought him back to the Last Homely House, but then, after they had bathed and fed him (against his protests), they delivered him to the woods and into Dorith's arms.

"We will be rooming with you tonight, little one," Elrohir informed him when he caught sight of a sachel in the older ellon's hand.

"Here is some food and drink to share with everyone." Eladan gestured grandly to the picnic basket which he had just snatched from Elrohir's other hand. Trust Eladan to bring up the matters of food…

Ron.

Harry bit his lips and turned away, hiding his face in Dorith's neck. (He smelled of damp leaves and earth…) This was the first time he thought about his first friend, after that day a long time ago – or so it seemed – in Bilbo's hole-home. The pain of loss was just as poignant as new. And partly, perhaps, it was because he did not want to let go of it too, to let go of his friends and past life.

"Laegnor?" Elrohir's tentative call floated into his ears. Harry jerked in Dorith's steady embrace. He had forgotten the presence of everyone else in that short moment. He must look odd to them, sinking suddenly into gloomy despair like this when he had been so happy before, if not chattery.

When he turned around and faced the twins, though, there was only understanding in their eyes, not confusion. So someone had informed them – and everyone else – that he was not like what he seemed, that he was a stranger – yet again – in the community he should rightly belong to?

"Do not look back overmuch, Laegnor, or else the past will consume you, sooner or later," Eladan said quietly. Harry could tell that he was speaking from experience. And on that thought, shame filled his mind. He was not the only one suffering on the face of the planet. He had truly become selfish, then.

Three people sighed hopelessly. Harry looked at them in bemusement. But no one deigned to explain it to him. Instead, they brought him deeper into the woods and up what looked like the biggest tree in the area, and onto a platform supported by its crown. There Gildor and Wenlach and their companions from the Wandering Company were gathered, as well as many of the Silvan Elves Harry had met in the morning.

The latters greeted him gently. Gildor beckoned him to him. But Wenlach just gave him a small smile, as she was otherwise involved in a debate with another elleth about something Harry did not understand. He came to Gildor and plopped down into his lap, but his eyes were on the twins. They had resumed their easy, cheery demeanours, but there was a ponderous air around them which was hardly noticible. Had he brought about that undesirable change on them?

He did not have a chance to think about it further. The Wood-Elves regailed him with stories about the forests of Eriador and lost Beleriand, capturing his soul in an endless supply of both fantastical and mandane 'leafy' anecdotes. Then there were also the tales about the Laegrim's life in Beleriand, and one or ten people gave him tips about woodcraft, which he could see would be a serious training on Wood-Elves' skills and customs once he was older.

He fell asleep cradled in Gildor's embrace, and dreamt of sneaky apple trees and cheeky squirrels with a smile on his face.

The chatter grew sober, and then fell silent altogether. The merry faces turned grave, and meaningful looks were exchanged.

"You looked troubled, young ones, even when you were coming here," Dóritháro began, breaking the silence, addressing Elrond's sons. They nodded but otherwise said nothing.

"He did not behave much like a child, did he?" Wenlach murmured, an odd smile on her face. Gildor and the rest of their companions looked at her with fond exasperation.

"He… did not behave like an Elf, yes," Elrohir said reluctantly. Mute surprised rippled across the talan like waves in the sea.

"How?" Eldamir blurted, incredulous. The twins shrugged.

"He played more like an adult than a child," Eladan informed them.

"His Elven senses were not honed – or noticed at all, it seems. He was indeed aware of his hearing and sight, and of his acquired speed and agility; but he was totally ignorant when it came to others, like mind-speech," Elrohir piped in.

"We would not really know what to do with him if we never had the experience of playing with Secondborn children and adults," Eladan said heavily. "It was so… different. But he also showed things a mere Elf should not be able to do. Perhaps Lady Luthien could, but she was a half-Maia anyway."

"What did Adar tell you all about?" Elrohir asked suddenly. While he and his brother had been playing with the child, the rest was attending their father's summons in the central courtyard of the Last Homely House.

"That Legnâr was indeed not an Elf," Dóritháro said wrily. "I refused to believe that until I peeked into your play some time near dusk." He let out a short bout of strained laughter on the sight of the twins' indignant expressions.

"He was not even from this age of Arda," Gildor muttered. On the twins' shocked looks, he continued grimly, "He was from the future." He raised his eyebrows when the younger Ellyn looked at Laikanáro doubtfully. The look had been his foster father's when in his 'king-mode', which had daunted most everyone in Nargothrond, and now it appeared to work on Eladan and Elrohir too. They looked away penitently.

"Well… his speaking style was indeed queer, and he used many words strange to us," Eladan conceded doubtfully.

"He was often tangled in his own thoughts, though, and sometimes it became fairly incomprehensible," Elrohir mused aloud. "It is… He is…" He trailed off, unable to speak up the last of his words.

What they had witnessed in Laegnor had been too similar to what Celebrian, their mother, had experienced after her captivity and torment in the filthy hands of the orcs. The parallel similarity was too unnerving, as their mother had been innocent despite her age as well. She had never tasted hardships more dire than raising three mischievous children, having been carefully sheltered from the war by first her parents then her husband.

"Rest, young ones. You need it." Dóritháro was suddenly before them and pulling them to their feet. The Green Elf was strong and steady, like an oak tree, they knew from long years of learning and mischief. Now, they could not disobey him too. In less than a moment, they found themselves traversing a rope bridge to the next talan, and Dóritháro would not leave until they were truly asleep.

"We are past our majority, Dorith," Eladan complained in a small voice when the Green Elf tucked him into his bedroll.

"You often behave like twenty-year-olds, still," the older ellon retorted mildly.

"Sing us a lullaby, then? For old-time sake?" Elrohir chimed in, hopeful, from the other bedroll set a few feet from his twin's. There was a note of playfulness in his voice, but also longing of a hurt child.

Dóritháro gave him a look, but it melted on the sight of Elrohir's big, pleading eyes. "Little imp," he grumbled; but then he was moving to sit on the space between their bedrolls and shifting his breathing for a quiet singing.

The twins buried their faces into their blankets and grinned. Dóritháro was a relentless and steady Elf, indeed, but he did have some weaknesses, and they knew many of those.

They ignored the real reason why they were purposefully behaving like the twenty-year-olds he accused them of being.

Footnotes:

*(1) Moriquendi. Dark Elves. Not essentially dark as in evil people. They are the Sindar, Nandor and Avari, those who did not migrate to Aman some centuries after their Awakening.

*(2) Refusers, the Avari. Turned Ones, the Nandor. The Refusers are those who refused to go to Aman when Oromë pleaded for the Elves to migrate there. The Turned Ones are those who were caught by the allure of Middle-earth's beauty during the Great Journey and forsook the Teleri host they had been counted in. But who would like to be called thus? They all (plus the Teleri who reached Aman after some time) call themselves the Singers, the Lindar. For courtecy and friendship, people usually call them with this last name, not the first two.


	13. Chapter 12

**Author's Notes:**

**Thank you for all the reviews and alerts and all! I'm sorry I can't yet reply most of your reviews; but fear not, they are not inconsequencial in my mind and heart. In fact, they are part of why I update the fic at last now… :sheepish:**

**And applauds for Mabidiso, who several days ago nudged me to write – again! :ashamed" – via a PM!**

**It has been quite busy and stressful on this corner of the world, but I at last found the time and will and courage to retook the chapter from its dusty storage-room. And here is to the hope that I shall manage at least another chapter before real life swallows me whole again!**

**I have to warn you however that there are some undulating emotions here. Fortify yourself! (I feel guilty that I had to do that. But the fic refused to be written in any other way, if you know my meaning.) I hope my characterisation of the hobbits is not too far off the mark too. Please help me with it? Then again, I'd greatly welcome any crits from you, if spoken politely. :))**

**Next chapter: the Grey Havens and… well, let us just see then. ;)**

**And here it is, fresh from the oven!**

**Chapter 12**

The tangy scent of dew-bathed forest and grassland seeped into his nostrils, filling his lungs, rejuvenating him. His blood almost literally freshened up; he could sense it in himself, rushing to the furthest reaches of his being as if in haste; and with that, his muscles were also enlivened.

His breath quickened. His eyelids fluttered as his vision focused, leaving the trance-like quality it took in his sleep.

The sky overhead was yet dark, but he could tell that dawn was near. Most of the stars had vanished, and the moon had waned. The breeze caressing his face brought the underlying smells of little animals and newly-emerging mold and wild flowers, and he longed to play among them…

The bedding was too cosy to leave just yet, though. So, with a soft cooing sigh, Harry rolled to his side and curled up under the light blanket. He could sense that at least two of the adults were up on the edge of the clearing, but they did not bother him even though they must know he was awake by now. It was still strange, despite the weeks spent like this. His friends and relatives had always alternated waking him up just months ago (or, in the Dursleys' case, about two years ago). Voldemort had even had a part in it. One of the perks of being an Elfling…

Someone managed to come up on him without his notice and scooped him up into the other's arms. Harry started and opened his mouth, about to howl for help. But the person shushed him and hastily rocked his tiny frame. Gildor. Ah, one of the downsides of being in the body of a baby…

And so much for an undisturbed lie-in.

Harry glared up at his pseudo-kidnapper. Gildor chuckled. Perhaps, he thought peevishly, it was more a squint than a glare anyway. He was not quite a morning person, after all, despite the demanding life with the Dursleys; and now, despite his changed body – and, to an extent, mind. Whoever dumping him in this world and in this form—

"Breakfast, little one…" A sing-song voice, coupled with a sharp swooping dive which made Harry squeak.

He missed Wenlach's efficient, no-nonsense approach on almost everything, and the soft spot reserved just for him. Gildor was entirely too cheery and warm for his liking, especially early in the morning. (Or before dawn, as it was.) Sadly she had to return to her parents… (Oh how he had sulked for days after her announcement!) And now he was left in the perky care of Gildor and the rest of the crew (minus Eldamir, who accompanied Wenlach back to Greenwood.) He might be able to appreciate the good cheer later, he supposed; but not now!

_`Umm. Am I whin__ging? Oops…`_

He curled up in Gildor's lap, and dispassionately stared at the bowl of oatmeal and sweet berries before him. Elves were rather uncreative when it came to baby food, it seemed. But then again, he had not seen any oranges or bananas around.

"Do not fuss, little one," Gildor warned, chuckling. Harry pouted. A brief tickle on his side prompted him to open his mouth for the wooden spoon to enter. And half an hour later found him running and dancing around the clearing. The tideous chore was finished!

They were getting close to the Shire now, Harry knew. The air of sad expectation hanging thick around the small group of Elves was unmistakable. They were reluctant to part with him.

And he found himself just as reluctant to let go of their company. Bilbo, Frodo and their hobbit hole seemed an age away. Time had passed both so quickly and so slowly in Rivendell, amongst his own kin. – His own. – How swiftly had he welcomed them into his life… And now—

He curled into himself in Aros' arms and murmured fretfully. He did not care that he was speaking babytalk now, or that he had never been as clingy as this. He would do anything to—

To what? To abandon his staying with Frodo and his uncle until their joined birthday in autumn? He had never broken his word to anyone before, and a part of him – which was yet free from the influence of his current body and mentality refused to make this a first time.

"We shall be near," Aros crooned into one tiny pointed ear sticking out from the living cocoon. Harry uttered a soft mewl. The man rocked him soothingly.

He wiggled. He did not need empty comfort now, or so he reasoned to himself. What he needed – and wanted – was a way to release the nervous energy pooling inside of him. Bawling his lungs out was out of the option, as it could attract unwanted attention from anyone and anything nearby; and he did not wish to embarrass himself any further anyway.

Thankfully Aros – bless his perceptiveness – stopped trying to reassure him, and in fact put him on the ground. "Now play you, little fawn. Do not stray, and we shall let you play till you are tired."

Harry did just that. He streaked towards the back of the slowing procession and wove around the calves of his tall companions; back to front and back again. If he had learnt anything valuable during his stay in Rivendell, it was various ways to exercise his body in any time and situation. Living with Elladan and Elrohir always required outmost vigilance and agility.

Crap. Now he realised he missed them very, very much. They were like Gred and Forge Weasley: worming their way into one's heart and leaving a strong sense of loss when they went away. He had molded right into their midst as if a little brother… – No, he must not wish too much.

But they – and the Wandering Company – were so real and tangible; so… sincere. They would not trash or betray an Elf-baby… right?

He climbed up Gildor's body and settled on the man's shoulders. He would miss this. Yes, he would miss this; only this. Just for three months… Just three…

He hugged Gildor's head tighter and stared fixedly ahead. This was the best for everyone, yes…

"Ah – Harry dear!"

A middle-aged hobbit ran out the round door, just to skid to a forceful stop on the threshold. Gildor had rung the door bell before melting back into the surroundings, leaving Harry and his belongings on the doorstep. – On that proclamation, the man-child scuttled backwards and squeaked.

"Uncle – You frightened him!" a younger voice piped in from inside the tunnel. A moment after, a brightly-beaming Frodo emerged and stood beside Bilbo. "Hello, Harí. I'm glad you came back. I've miss you so much."

Now he knew what they were saying, as he had rigorously studied the common languages while in Rivendell – after persistently badgering many people to teach him.

Bright eyes. Brighter smiles. – Harry forwent his earlier reluctance and melancholy, and beamed back up at his two hobbit friends from his perch on the threshold.

"Were you the one ringing the bell, lad?" Bilbo asked while ruffling the mop of silk-soft raven hair atop Harry's head, a note of playful suspicion in his laughing voice. "I was waiting for Gandalf, you know. Where's he now?"

Frodo, while scooping the tiny form of the Elfling up into his arms, chuckled and retorted, "Uncle, do you think Harry could reach the door bell? And if Gandalf's here, he ought to be showing up now." Harry giggled on that, but neither of the two hobbits paid attention to him. Perhaps they thought he still could not understand their language?

Bilbo laughed out loud, sheepishly. "Good question." He beckoned his nephew in, and then picked up the pack containing the belongings of their little guest. Before slipping into the hole himself and closing the door, he looked around surreptitiously, searching for the ringer of the bell. It would be awesome if he could meet one or two Elves now!

But sadly, the wish was not going to be fulfilled… at least now. There was nobody out of the ordinary near Bag End that he could see.

Harry curled around his beloved pillow, deep in reverie. It was no longer odd to him, sleeping in this way, after about four months of adjustment; he still missed a full, oblivious sleep, though.

He hovered on the edge of consciousness, half-aware of himself and his surroundings, in a trance-like sort of way. – His heart beat steadily in a calm rhythm, matching his deep, slow breathing –

Bilbo snored lightly in the room next to his, while Frodo – quiet, mischievous Frodo – was totally silent in the chamber adjacent to his uncle's.

Water was nearby, and greens too, and they sang to him a most sweet lullaby. The slumbering world floated him in its quiescent currents, rocking him soothingly. The span of time he had spent in the company of the Elves had somehow eroded his nightmares to a peaceable level, but he could still feel them impinging on his mind even now.

But soon the Sun would rise; he could sense that. He would rise together with the Sun and begin his first day here. He hoped *(1)she would accompany him for the whole day.

Because today, he would finally meet Frodo's friends in person, and they seemed to be all energetic youths. Darting around in the various meadows and gardens under the bright sunlight would be lovely. (And it was one habit of his the Elves had never succeeded to replace, so far.)

And with thoughts of running around outdoors in his mind, he could no longer bring his body and spirit to while away the remaining time of darkness in rest. Time to sneak around for breakfast…

Meriadoc ("Call me just Merry!") Brandybuck, Folco ("Anything they tell you, don't call me Fox – or Foxy!") Boffin, and Peregrin ("I'm Pippin! But you can call me Pip.") Took were just three hobbit lads with bright smiles and brighter eyes and round, guileless faces. But somehow Harry's mind interpreted the innocent portrayal as menacing. It did not help that Frodo was glaring warningly at the trio, who subsequently looked penitent. They reminded Harry too much of the Weasley twins and their Elven counterparts whom he had just left away in Rivendell. Danger alarms blared in his mind, accompanied by excitement. Perhaps they could replace Elladan and Elrohir for a time? Or better yet, Fred and George?

But Fred was dead, and Harry had no means to contact George, probably not until the world collapsed in on itself. – But the hobbit lads were here, and they were real; and perhaps, in time he would accept the notion that he would never return to the world he had once knew?

But… Yet…

He was frog-marched between Merry and Folco. Behind him, Pippin chirped, "Off we go to the stream! Under the trees and the Sun's beam! And we'll go play, play—"

When Harry returned to Bag End near dusk, he was thoroughly drenched and filthy from mud and grass stains, and Frodo had been expecting the quartet with a scowl that threatened to curve into a smile on the porch of the lavished hobbit-hole.

It was quite an accident, really, when Harry met the other young frequenter of Bilbo's home. He had been wanting to enjoy the sun without disguises so badly that he did just that: going to the gardens without his hooded cloak, garbed only in the shift Wenlach had gifted him and the light leather shoes she had also given him. For the day, Frodo, having known nothing about braiding hair save to tug it when teasing the hobbit lasses, had simply gathered his hair and tied it with a short, thin leather thong. And then, when the hobbit's attention was elsewhere, Harry fled to the gardens surrounding Bag End.

He spent a long, long while dancing and running aimlessly among the flower-beds and trees and swaying grass blades. Sometimes he sang, sometimes he giggled, and most of the times he beamed goofily at his surroundings. The Sun's rays warmed him all over, and he could sense her gentle regard on this land he was currently staying in. He so, so loved her…

Sadly, his self-induced merry-making ended not on his own terms. In all his erratic play with the plantlife and small rodents, he had nearly bumped against someone hidden among the rhododendron bushes. His laughter turned into a startled and frightened squeak, and it was sheer bravado that rooted him to the spot.

It seemed that the same feelings were shared by the previously-hidden watcher, for the brown-eyed hobbit lad, who looked not much younger than Frodo, shrank deeper in between the tall, huge bushes. Their eyes met, and Harry could see awe and acute joy in the other's gaze, tempered with the recent terror of discovery and uncertainty of… what? Torment? But what could Harry do to the stranger, and why would he do that?

Hoping not to scare a potential friend away, Harry asked tentatively, "What is your name?" Meanwhile, he stepped back, hoping to lure the terrified hobbit out of the bushes.

At last, after a long and uncomfortable moment, the hobbit answered. "Sam. Samwise Gamgee. I'm here helping Old Garfer tending Master Bilbo's gardens." And as if to prove his point, he raised a pair of gardening scissors with a trembling hand. Then, when Harry kept his silence, he blurted, "Are you really an Elf like in the tales Master Bilbo told? But we never heard whiff of Elven children!"

Because there had been none for a long time, thought Harry, but he was reluctant to say so aloud. Instead, he gave Sam a small smile. He would let Sam draw his own conclusion.

But one thing that he had to secure now was Sam's silence on the matter, as much as a loose tongue could be trusted…

"Please tell nobody about me?"

He could not help it. His gaze hardened unwillingly. Old survival instincts surfaced in his being, causing him to tense and expect the worst.

But Sam's chocolate-warm orbs were uncharacteristically solemn, and Harry could see and sense his sincerity when he said at last, "Not a whiff, Master Elf!"

Ironically, three figures emerged from behind the bushes, then: Merry, Folco and Pippin.

Harry fled the gardens. It was too much. And now he was jeopardising his own happiness and safety, and also those of the kind Bilbo and Frodo… He had to tell them about this, at least, even though it rankled him to do so.

However, Harry ended up hiding in the cellar eating the ice cream from his *(2)never-ending ice cream supply, as Bilbo and Frodo were busy greeting their Dwarven guests in the parlour. Preparations for the oncoming huge birthday party had just begun, and Harry had decided to make himself scarce. He had not told the two Bagginses about his encounter with Sam while not under the protection of anonymity, and truth be told, he was reluctant to defy this current luck and seek them. It could wait…

He took his meals in the kitchen, where the Dwarves rarely visited, and sometimes Frodo was there to accompany him, reading him tales from a huge book the hobbit seemed to love so much. It was actually Frodo's journal, filled with his childhood adventures – and misadventures – around Buckland, a hobbit settlement on the other side of the river. Harry could not help giggling on many parts in the telling, and Frodo seemed to appreciate it in return. It was as if there were only the two of them in a world of their own, fenced from the harsh outside…

Well, but they had to part again at some point. Frodo still had his duties for the oncoming birthday party and his inheriting Bag End after Bilbo was gone – because he would indeed depart the land forever, the old hobbit himself claimed. And then Harry would be pulled back to his past, pulled across a yawning space of time and space, and he would seek sanctuary inside his *(3)home trunk. He knew that he had to forgo this fruitless yearning, but knowledge itself could not save him. It seemed that a clash between mind and heart indeed occurred to an Elf, just as it did to a Man…

When Gandalf at last came, days after the Dwarves, his heart was eased a little. Just a little, because he could then sense and see that the Wizard was greatly troubled over something. (He was quite similar to the deceased Headmaster Dumbledore sometimes that Harry was unnerved, and this brooding silence full of secret that he was currently exuding was part of it.) He clustered himself with Bilbo as soon as he came, and only sought Harry and Frodo some time later, giving the two of them (who had been playing with Harry's figureens) a forced jovial smile.

To say that Harry felt frustrated and pinned down by everything that had been happening would be an understatement. He was both grateful and embarrassed that Gandalf realised it, though. But he could no longer grudge the Wizard his insight when a surprise came to him one fine morning; the day before the birthday party, in fact.

The door-bell had rung early in the morning, and a frazzled and cautious Frodo (with Harry clinging fast on his back) had rushed to answer it. And Gildor was there, garbed in his travelling cloak and with his skin covered by a brownish substance that hid the glow of his form rather well. Just then, a thought touched the fringes of Harry's mind, `Well-met, little one.`

Well-met indeed!

Harry would have jumped in joy, but he feared baffled inquiries from Frodo. Besides, he did not love the earth so much that he would gladly fall hard on it.

Had Bilbo known Gildor beforehand, though? Or was it Gandalf that had invited the Elf? And why the disguise? Gildor himself had advised him to be just who he was… That hypocrite, he thought peevishly.

But he was too fond of the said hypocrite to stay grumpy at him for too long. Gildor introduced himself, in a voice that Harry did not recognise as his, as "Mardyn from far lands." He acted as if he did not know who Harry was, but nonetheless sent a sense of amusement and apology into Harry's mind meanwhile. After a proper introduction and time had been endured, thus, Harry took leave of Frodo and dragged the mirthful Gildor into his cellar sanctuary.

Unfortunately, he had not counted the possibility that Gildor would not answer his inquiries; and it was what happened. The disguised Elf-man instead taught him about the lore of making miruvor, and, however reluctantly, Harry's mind was bent towards it.

Frodo did not harbour any suspicion on Gildor, still, even though Harry spent much time secluded away with him in hidden places that guests ought not tread upon. It seemed that the token remark that "I am Gandalf's friend" was quite sufficient for the hobbit… Or was there another reason? Being busy had never deterred Frodo from investigating something. (In fact, the hobbit, with profuse apology and a determined look on his face, had personally fished Harry out of one of the cellars a couple of days ago, after noting that he had not been able to see Harry around Bag End for a full day already.) What was going on in Frodo's mind now? Harry would give much to know that …

When Harry again found an alone time with Gildor, this time in the gardens, he asked the man just that. (Hopefully, there were no hidden watchers or eavesdroppers around now.)

But Gildor just raised an amused eyebrow. Harry crumpled his face in growing frustration and befuddlement. Then, seeming to pity him, the man at last said, "Can you not see it, child? He saw how quickly you welcomed me, and how you have never let go of me since then."

Harry could feel his eyes widening. "So rather, he trusts my judgement?" he squeaked in a low tone, feeling a dreadful burden falling on top of him.

Gildor shook his head, smiling comfortingly. "Nay, my green flame. Rather, he trusts the judgement of an Elf-child that stems from his purity of senses." Yet still, Harry shivered, no more comforted than before.

Frodo trusted him, implicitly it seemed. How if he erred one day? How if he was not there for the hobbit? The world was a cruel place, and deadly for those innocent of heart and mind…

In the span of the thought, Gildor had gathered him into the man's embrace and cradled him close to his chest. And now he whispered into one tiny leaf-shaped ear, "Being kind and good-hearted has a power on its own, little one, however foolish and dangerous it looks at first."

Harry clung fast to that hope.

Merry, Folco and Pippin, who had been avoiding Harry since the fateful afternoon, approached him eagerly instead on the dawn of the celebration. They were bedecked in festive clothes in honour of the joint birthday party of Bilbo and Frodo, just like Harry himself, and seemed to be in a merry-making mood already. (Gildor, claiming to the two bachelor Bagginses last night that he had gotten the order of party clothes for Harry from Gandalf himself, had provided the said victim with a set of miniscule silk robes in autumn colours. Furthermore, he had managed to acquire a fancy light hood to shadow Harry's face and cover his ears.)

And now Merry chirped, "We've got you your presents."

And then little Pippin added excitedly, "Old Bilbo loves you so! He got you a copy of every present available for you, he said!" to which Merry glared and Folco rolled his eyes. Before the little imp could continue divulging secrets, though, Merry had already dragged him out of the nook of Bag End Harry had wandered into, and Folco was now eyeing him uncertainly, somewhat fearful.

Harry tilted his head slightly, questioning. Then, seeming to break from a trance, Folco shrugged and hesitantly reached out a hand. "Let's go," he said, a little subdued. "They're waiting for us."

"Will there be trickle tarts there?" Harry asked on a whim, hating the awkwardness between them. And true to his hope, the distance between them vanished, and Folco chirruped about the various meals and dainties and drinks and games and presents and crackers and fireworks soon to be unleashed in the birthday party.

Trust the hobbits to be excited about food…

But Harry himself could not say that he was not enjoying the party. Gildor, when the hobbit lads were lured away by the promise of food and drink aplenty, had introduced him to the beige paste the Elf-man had used on his own skin. Now Harry looked almost like a hobbit lad himself save for his slender built, shod feet and straight hair. And with that notion in mind, he merged as boldly as he could among the throng of partying hobbits, partaking in nearly every activity they conducted. (He stopped eating and drinking when his stomach felt like bursting, though, unlike his hobbit peers. He just could not contain so much!) Dimly, he remembered experiencing a similar abandon joy once, although in another – darker – circumstance – entirely, but he did not care about it – for now.

A little late in the afternoon, a rosy-cheeked Merry, with Pippin trailing along, came to where he had been dancing alone to the tunes of the impromptu orchestra of young hobbits. A handful of crackers Harry knew to be Gandalf's work were in his and Pippin's arms, and excited looks were on their faces.

"Let's try these!" Merry said, and little Pip chirped his agreement. They seemed to have forgotten Harry's nature entirely in the giddiness of the day-long festivity, and Harry embraced the chance most gratefully. They quickly threaded their way among the milling hobbits, until they found a corner occupied only by bins containing used and torn wrapping papers. There the two hobbit lads unburdened their arms, and shared an excited grin with Harry.

"The largest one first!" Pippin quickly requested. Merry obeyed indulgently, shifting through the pile for the largest package. Then, bowing, he handed it to Harry.

Harry bowed back, giggling. "My honour!" he said solemnly, then burst out laughing when Merry and Pippin stuck their tongues out at him. He opened the package, then, and stepping to a more open space pulled the trigger of the cracker roll.

Instead of a boom, a blast of fanfare trumpets deafened their ears, just as a cloud of buttercup-smelling, yellow-coloured fog blanketed the three of them. And soon, the estatic squealing of three young voices could be heard.

Harry had briefly thought they would either get a *(4)chess-set, six white mice, or a pointed hat though…

But he would not protest. A mini trumpet now lay amidst the remains of the cracker roll, soon claimed by the eager Pippin, and before long he was made to pull another cracker roll. (The smallest, this time, which filled their ears with the haunting yet happy trill of flutes and sent them into the midst of silver mists, and left a beautiful silver flute in its wake.) He was beginning to feel a bond of friendship growing between them, and he was glad of it. He would not pretend that they were Ron and Hermione; but this was enough, for now.

The trio of children returned to the heart of the party for tea-time, but afterwards they snuck more crackers and small fireworks to their own nook and entertained themselves with those little marvels. And Harry was most content with it. Gandalf grand fireworks later in the evening were a very, very, very welcome bonus, with all the glowing trees and birds and spears and butterflies – and the roaring dragon in the end.

His only regret was that Gildor fetched him before he could follow Merry and Pippin into the tent for the family dinner. He reasoned that Gandalf needed to speak with Harry, and the two hobbit lads let him go. Harry remained a little cranky when Gildor dragged him to Bag End, but said nothing.

His plummeting mood only worsened when the Wizard, waiting for them with Harry's baggage on the porch of the hobbit-hole, said that it was time to depart for the Grey Havens.

"But Frodo…" Harry began to protest but then trailed off, too upset to defend himself. Gandalf smiled sadly at him. Worse, Gildor seemed to have been conspiring with the Wizard and gave him a similar smile.

"What is it that you are hiding from me?" he demanded instead, as the thought flashed in his mind. The two men did not reply, although their silence acknowledged Harry's claim.

Trying to hold back tears, Harry rushed into the entrance hall of Bag End. Finding a set of small travelling clothes that seemed to be meant for him hung on the cloak pegs, he tore off his festive garments and donned them instead. His movements were jerky, and his hands trembled. He did not acknowledge Gandalf and Gildor when they entered, ducking through the low round door.

He departed Bag End buried in Gildor's arms, refusing to look back to either Gandalf or Bag End, and certainly not to the ongoing party on its yard. And when he realised that Gildor's pace never faltered from the path out of the hobbit-land, silent tears rolled down his cheeks.

Footnotes:

*(1) Arien, the steerer of the Sun.

*(2) and *(3) Two of the gifts Harry had received back in his own world, days before he was transported to the front porch of Bag End for the first time.

*(4) A reference to the Christmas meal of Harry's first year at Hogwarts. I could not help myself… :)


	14. Chapter 13

Author's Notes:

Here is another chapter! Quicker than the usual? Well, I did try not to put you into too much torment… and the reviews help immensely in the motivation department, to be honest. Not a few of them highlighted what people like (and sometimes dislike) from this story, and it helps me very, very much in defining the plot and words both in my head and on MS Word. Thank you so for all the encouragement and critiques!

And this time, I hope I have answered all your reviews. For hopefully this time only, the list of reviewers will be complied from several chapters worth of reviews. (I did say I'd reply to all, right? I just didn't know when… :self-amused:)

And they are: , ice Vixen X, Toki Mirage, TutelaTwin, koryssa-kory, White Alchemist Taya, Alianna15, Raven Marcus, Hemotem, IchigoRenji, Reallybored2, Will Baggins, InxDarknessxox, RevieWriter, Goldenfightergirl, lilyoftheval5, kyzhart, animexoverluver123, cheekysorcerer, HarrisonxPotterxox, Larner, A Midsummer Night's Dreams, Sparks, RogueNya, frizzie123, CatWriter, Fk306 animelover, AnimeIceFox, Arturus, no one importand, Bobboky, aikenichi11, Gladoo89, Beloved Daughter, Katla, Tara La'Quinn, smitty1110, kacoo, enchanted nightingale, Kamai6, Jenna Linda, jgood27, Draeconin, FireFox Vixen, Ideal Mind, Rylia, Anon42, Make war not love. war is fun, Mellombror, Sarah, AlaudeSketchbook, myriad-souls, NEVERMORE DARKNESS, Aytheria, LadyOblivious, Rae, Booker10, grey-shadow-horse, autumnannette19, quaff, Fluffy-luvr, Kyjori, Jostanos, mmichelle97219, Lousy Poet Automaton, Funkichooki, Hanzo of the Salamander, Kanberry, Mabidiso, kk bk, GreenRider-Inheritance-fanatic, Syret, Auriga Black, Lordamnesia, Celestialuna, Aiso-san, -w- easy enough, Elf Knight, Yana5, harrylover101, The Heroine With 1000 Faces, cocoa85715, Glodfindel, Filteredlight, Bratling, and Hoppy159. I replied to most of you, but sadly I had to skip several names or the update would not be launched any time this week. Profuse apologies…

About this chapter: Much angst all around. Beware. (And for those of you who want your questions to be answered, please log in, not leaving just an anonymus review.) Otherwise, enjoy the ride!

Rey

**Chapter 13**

Harry had never thought about how swift Elven pace could be. Gandalf's memories had never provided him anything concrete about it, and Harry himself had never gained any first-hand evidence about the matter. The grown-up Elves he had travelled with seemed to swing only between two modes: idle walk and forced run. But now Gildor, one of the said grown-ups, broke that pattern. Night was yet on the way when the strong smell that Harry vaguely recognised as sea hit his nose.

Or perhaps, the Grey Havens actually lay close to the Shire, closer than he had ever thought or imagined?

But Harry did not want to think about the Shire right now. It only made him madder to Gildor and Gandalf, and he was currently too emotionally tired without that unnecessary addition. (Well, all the secrecy sorely tempted him to investigate too, and he knew he could not do that under the tight supervision of those annoying adults.) Besides, someone was now approaching them from the opposite direction, and Gildor at last began to relax. What would happen? Was he about to be passed on to the new person? But – but…

The centries had reported that an Elf was speeding towards the Havens as if chased by hell-hounds. Gildor had arrived then, Erestor thought resignedly. Everything was in motion. But he wished he had no part in this. He was sick of participating in intrigues and wars; and most of all, he was sick of losing loved ones and reliving the reminder in any way. He had lived for around forty *(1)long-years in moderate peaceful oblivion, and he did not want to forsake it.

People had looked oddly – some pityingly – at him whenever he said that, in the weeks after the decision had been made and the plan had been set. He had received a great honour, they said. After all, he would live in one of the safest havens east of the Great Sea and take care of a child of their kind – an infant more than fifteen long-years in waiting. Not even Glorfindel the famous Balrog-slayer got that privilege.

But personally, Erestor preferred his small, perfect quarters in Imladris. He was used to being called an oddball anyway. Being burdened by this assignment did not make people any friendlier to him too.

They just did not understand – never would, perhaps. Nobody knew that his spirit shook and recoiled whenever he remembered what he soon had to do. They would just think him a coward if they knew, like they always did. He could imagine what they would whisper at each other when they thought he could not hear: "He is a whimp, refusing to take up weapon after the Last Alliance like that; and now he is scared of raising a baby?" Never mind that he had helplessly seen his cousin-come-brother die an arm's away in the spectacular failure of that alliance's final battle; someone dearer than his life that he had been raising from early childhood through thick and thin, only to be burnt like a worthless piece of firewood by Gorthaur before his eyes.

Currently, not even Círdan was sympathetic to his plight, despite knowing and feeling – to a point – all that he had experienced. (The duo had sought sanctuary with him many times in the past, and they had grown close as a result.) The ancient ellon had even gone as far as saying that this assignment would help him mend himself. As if he was broken! He was not—

Was he?

The reported Elf came into view in a blur, then slowed down a few paces away. Gildor's eyes peered at him from under the deep hood the other ellon wore. Erestor stared back flatly. So this was who Mithrandir sent? Since when had Gildor become friendly to a Maia, especially a disguised one like that Ithron? But no matter…

Something moved within Gildor's cloak. Erestor extended his hands. Let the torture begin. He would set it in his own pace, though.

Judging from Gildor's reproving gaze, the other ellon knew perfectly well what he meant. But still, he handed the restless bundle to Erestor without any more words, dropped the sachel seemingly containing the child's belongings on Erestor's feet, then turned around stiffly back to the way he had come.

If Gildor was perfectly willing to care for Laegnor, why did Mithrandir not choose him over the reluctant, grouchy, bitter Erestor? What did the Ithron have under his grubby sleeve for the three of them?

He watched Gildor running back into the night, away from Elven society. But the ellon's gait was somehow dogged now, and Erestor would swear that he looked over his shoulder every so often. Had he moved past the gruesome, ignoble death of his adoptive father, then? Had he moved past *(2)his hatred of Celegorm and Curufin and Túrin the Secondborn?

If so, why could Erestor himself not?

Skirting that damning question, he similarly turned his back on the path leading out of Mithlond and jogged lightly towards Círdan's abode. The assignment had begun. He would do his duties, but Mordor would be friendly before he would open himself to this latest charge of his. He would not let this child shatter the remmnants of his heart.

Harry peered uncertainly over the blankets at the blank-faced Erestor, baffled at his latest guardian's different attitude towards him. Erestor had always been silent and rather aloof, but he had never been this cold and distant. The chilling treatment jarred the man-child, reminding him quite unpleasantly of a number of people in the life he had been taken from. He did not know should he despise this new Erestor or try to understand what had come upon him. The former was quite tempting, however insistently his mind told him that "right" did not always mean "easy."

The Sun was greeting this part of the world with bright hues, but the both of them were stuck in here, in the place their bearded host had assigned for them. Or rather, Erestor had stuck the both of them here after Harry's brief introduction to Círdan. The weird Elf-man had speedily changed his clothes into a light shift and tucked him into the bed, all brusquely and distantly. And now here they were, Harry peeping up at Erestor and ducking into the blankets when the stare was returned, and Erestor sitting stiffly in the chair beside the bed.

— Peep.

Erestor swiped a hand across his face. And then he looked at Harry.

Duck.

A rustle. Erestor at last got up from the chair, it seemed. It might be safe…

Peep.

The Elf-man was looking out of the window nearby. Harry did not know what view it overlooked. He wished he could—

Duck.

— Awh. Nearly caught. Erestor had suddenly turned around. Harry bit his index finger agitatedly in lieu of biting his lip. Dared he peep over at the grown-up again?

Erestor decided it for him. Unexpectedly, the sheets were yanked away, and Harry lost his hideout. He squeaked.

"It is not play-time, little one."

`_I know_,` Harry muttered sulkily to himself, inching away from the on-edge man looming over him.

Erestor raised an eyebrow. "Am I mistaking your gestures as game, then?" he grumbled asserbically.

Oh. Harry had forgotten – again – given his stay with the hobbits. Elves could hear unprotected thoughts as if they were spoken orally. The problem was that he was yet again out of practise of shielding his mind. It never came naturally to him, and every exercise of it reminded him unpleasantly of his horrible Occlumency lesson with Snape. (That man might have done quite much for him, even to death, but the fact remained that he had been quite a git too.)

"S'neip?" Erestor repeated, interested. Harry gave him a grumpy glare and refused to answer in any way. It did not deter him, though. "Who is he?"

Harry jumped out of Erestor's reach, diving under the pillows. The Elf-man muttered a string of words sounding suspiciously like curses, but Harry no longer cared. Why did Gildor sic him on this odd piece of Elven-kind? Why did Gandalf, in the first place? If everything continued like this, he would pull an escape somewhere.

"Well, you are not going to escape from me."

Criky. His Occlumency had not worked – again. Think of nothing, think of nothing…

He peeked out a little from under the mound of pillows, saying as solemnly as he could, "No, I shall not, now."

Erestor's baleful glare sent him hiding again.

Nowë sat comfortably atop one of the thick poles that formed the peer posts, ruminating about recent events. The atmosphere was perfect for just that: the sea was calm, the sky was clear, and the merry bustle of ship-crafters was a warm background noise. His latest guests, an old charge-came-friend and a baby, who were also the subject of his current thoughts, had also been provided lodging and time to take some rest.

It gave him a not-too-pleasant surprise, thus, when he found the grown-up one of his guests striding agitatedly towards him from the direction of his abode. "What is amiss, Erestor?"

The much-younger ellon halted only a foot from him, as if taking comfort from the closeness to his pseudo-guardian. His raking his unbound hair jerkily, almost yanking at it, was another sure sign to Nowë that something quite wrong was happening. "What has happened, child?" he asked more forcefully. They could not waste time.

"I am not a child any longer," came the dratted response; but, to Nowë's alarm, it was just a half-hearted retort. Something was definitely wrong with Erestor.

"What has happened?" he repeated, rising up from his perch and gripping Erestor's shoulder firmly. "We cannot waste time, if it is of dire importance."

The last phrase seemed to strike home, for Erestor shuddered and drew a ragged breath, refusing to meet Nowë's sharp gaze. When Nowë shook his shoulder slightly, trying to elicit a verbal response from him, he at last mumbled, "The child ran away. I did not find him abed when *(3)I came out of my dreams. He was not in the house or its surroundings also. Nobody has seen him leave…" The words trailed off into another shudder and a choked breath.

Nowë let out a growl of curses. Apparently having never heard him do so, Erestor's head snapped up and those blue-grey orbs, clouded with fear and self-hatred, goggled at him dazedly. It went unnoticed by the ancient shipwright, as he roughly grasped Erestor's arm and dragged the said ellon impatiently after him. Where was the baby now? Surely he had not gone too far or concealed himself too well? But little things and little children were easily overlooked…

The mentioned house was in disarray when the frazzled pair arrived. It looked like a disturbed beehive, ready to explode at any time soon. Anxious faces mirroring Erestor's and Nowës were everywhere, as Ellyn and ellyth ran to and throw, calling the missing child's name.

Nowë shook his head. That would not do. Sighing deeply, he bellowed over the racket, "SEARCH PARTIES!" Having to compete with the roaring of the sea in daily basis availed him now, as every Elf hearing the command instantly froze in their places. Now that he was regaining leadership of his people, though, he must conceal any weakness and panic he felt on the current problem. Letting out another sigh (and meanwhile trying to ignore Erestor's fidgeting), he spoke in a lower and calmer tone, "Comb this place, three ellyth and Ellyn each group. I shall comb the river's mouth and the tide-pools with Erestor." An elleth farther into the house shrieked on the word "tide-pools," and Nowë himself felt his heart constrict on the idea of the baby being lost in the maze of waterlocked rock formations. `_Oh Ossë! Save him when the tide comes!_`

But, whether circumstances – or the Belain – were not being kind to any of them, Laegnor was not found until dusk approached.

Footnotes:

*(1) 144 Sun-years (our own years, which consists of 365 days). Since yén and yéni are Quenya words, I can't slip it into Erestor's point of view.

*(2) Celegorm and Curifin, sons of Fëanor, dethroned Finrod in a (thankfully) bloodless civilian coup. Seeing that Finrod and his tiny contingent were then entrapped in their former stronghold and eaten alive by werewolves, Gildor would have strong hatred towards those two conniving monsters. Túrin, although coming at first to Nargothrond later (when it was under the rule of Orodreth, Finrod's brother) perhaps without thoughts of dethronement, nevertheless took it by general vote at last, leading it to its doom. – There are some drawbacks to Elven perfect memory, indeed!

*(3) No, not to sound poetic or something; just to indicate that Elves do not fall into sleep like we do. – Did it work?

Translation: (Sindarin, otherwise indicated)  
elleth: female Elf  
ellon: male Elf  
Ellyn: male Elves  
ellyth: female Elves  
Ithron: Wizard  
Nowë: Eldarin: Círdan's real name, so to say (canon)

Additional Notes:  
Apologies for the angsty, cliff-hanger-ish ending. I thought that 4 alternating point of views of angst were quite enough for one chapter. There will not be this much angst in the next chapter, though, and hopefully it'll come out soon enough, depending on my muse and RL schedule.


	15. Chapter 14

Author's Notes:

I'm very sorry for the once-again-so-long delay, people. RL became even less kindly to me these months, and I'm in fact sneaking away from some pressing duties just to finish this chapter. And yes, the chapter had been sitting in my harddrive since a few months ago in a half-completed state, but I only did the finishing touch just now. Not to say that I'm satisfied with it though, because I'm not.

That brings me to the second point of these notes too: I am going to rewrite this fic (yes, again…), so please save up the chapters yourselves if you would. The changes may or may not be significant; but the new chapters will just replace the old ones like I did previously. I recently found a rope to tie all the plot together and also wished to address some of the complaints by concerned readers, hence the impending rewrite. The general plot will be maintained, but I cannot promise that the smaller details will be any similar to what they are.

Last but not least, thank you all so, so, so, so much for reading, reviewing, following and favouriting this story, and also for those of you who put it in your communities. (100 C2's! Squeak!) A very special thanks to Mabidiso who once again had to nudge me – so politely too – to continue the story, without whom the chapter may not have been finished and posted. (The PM s/he sent me haunted and hounded my conscience until I finally worked on this story again. :guilty cough:) And for everyone, please be patient, but I assure you I'll reply to each and every review/PM you have kindly sent me some time in the future. I cannot promise you a specific date – or even month – though, since this semester is frightfully hectic at the school where I teach.

But now, enjoy!

Rey

**Chapter 14**

The sea was huge.

Harry had never seen the sea in its full glory before in his lifetime – or any of his lifetimes, rather. The little sojourn to the bleak, stormy seaside hut before his first year at Hogwarts had not prepared him for this. (It was like comparing a sandbox to a desert, or… well, Erestor to Dorith.) The vast expanse of tangy, salty water ran from horizon to horizon, coloured beautiful shades of deep blue and greenish blue, roiling eternally but not threateningly. Quiet, calm, deceptive power, the kind of power that Harry suspected Albus Dumbledore and Tom Riddle had tried to achieve – in their own ways – without much avail.

The man-child slid down, his bum connecting with the wet sand of the tidal line with a soft flop. Curling up, he hugged his legs and rested his chin atop his knees. His eyes roamed the treat before him hungrily. The sea was… enthralling, trapping him in a strange but fascinating dream of sounds and shapes and colours that he could not explain even to himself.

It felt like an eternity, yet at the same time just a moment; but anyway, Harry was jolted out of his trance by a finger of water lapping at his bare toes lodged in the wet sand. He blinked. The Sun was still on her way up, the breeze was still cool…

He blinked again. The sea was different. It was somehow… energetic, for lack of a better word. The waves danced merrily, toppling over one another and wriggling with lively vigor – inviting, beckoning…

Harry scrambled up to his feet and tentatively approached the wavelet that had woken him up, which was retreating back to the sea. His hesitation vanished when another finger of water surged towards him, as if wanting to grab him. He jumped as high as he could, then bore down on its crest with a splash and a giggling squeal. Another wavelet, another splash, another squeal of laughter, and soon Harry was hopping around, dancing amidst the waves with abandon. Immersed in his play, he unknowingly inched ever deeper in the shallows, seeking a closer contact with the fingers of currents that curled lovingly around him and caressed him in a playful manner.

The sea rejoiced with him, cradling him when his small feet no longer found bottom,

– Sending warm feelings at him.

A form materialised in front of him, composed of raw power, a conscience as vast as the sea, and a vague, liquid, glistening body. It enveloped him in a deep, gentle embrace, and a thought resonated in his mind, sounding like the rumbling of the deeps and the shushing of surf on the shore: `_Welcome to our dwelling, changeling-child._` It was made up of concepts of welcome, sanctuary and Harry's own identity cobbled up together, but it felt natural on this strange being, and the meaning was unmistakeable.

Harry stiffened, feeling cold all of a sudden. Changeling? So this… person… knew that he was not a 'real' Elf? Then what would—

`_I shall not harm you, changeling-child._`

It – or the translation Harry made for himself – did not sound sufficient, but his instincts told him that it was enough. One less individual out to get him was one less individual that he had to defend against. He was too used to a quiet, safe life lately… It seemed that he had to rework his old habits from a lifetime ago.

`_No. Not now._`

`_—No?_` Harry's mind repeated the sense-turned-statement numbly, dazed and confused. `_Not now?_` The sensation of disagreement and disapproval, tempered by a faint thought of the future, had been delivered quietly and calmly, but with a definite certainty – a silent confidence – that felt like a mental punch to him. What did this… being?… mean?

But this time, no answer was forthcoming. Instead, He was back to being cradled and warmed, teased by various fingers of currents.

No, he did not want to be treated like a child!

But was he?

Only then Harry realised that the individual who was holding him had mostly retreated out of his mind. It was as if the other did not want to touch the subject also, and chose some mindless comforting to distract himself… Well, in that case, Harry felt no different.

And who was this new being, anyway? He did not feel and sound like Gandalf at all. He did not speak like Gandalf too. (Gandalf used words and images mostly, but this being used many sensations, emotions and thoughts, which Harry's mind then automatically turned into some word equivalent.) It was quite unfortunate that Gandalf's memory of Valinor had been blurred, really.

And in that case, was this—?

A strong sense of power merges on water and the delight of it flooded his own being, dwarved by that of his holder. It was followed by senses of dirt-shaping, liquid flame, ocean white-top rollers and shoreline surf; and underlain along the string of senses was the notion of self. – Storms, islands, magma, waves, but…

`_Me._`

The one word, the first real word his holder had ever conveyed to him, was spoken in the same definite, undeniable manner. Harry would flinch away if he could.

Nobody else had introduced his or her self to him in such a manner, not even Gandalf. What a name!

Or… was it…?

`_Name._`

Second word. His holder was definitely getting chatty. Well, but the tone was still as firm as ever, and Harry began to miss the beat-around-the-bush mannerism of most Elves (and even Gandalf sometimes). Speaking of which, where was he now? Were people beginning to miss him? Were he missed at all? He could not say that he missed Erestor, though, or their bearded host. The Wandering Company were who knew where, and the hobbits and other Elves were out of reach. He could spare some time for enjoying himself – wherever here was – right?

Thus, his mind made up, Harry settled back into his earlier playful, curious mood, becoming braver and livelier by the moment. It helped that another being, this time feeling like a female, soon joined them. She introduced herself in the same way as the male, conveying to him the sense (not even image!) of water plants and animals, of curly little wavelets and vicious undertow, and a hauntingly-beautiful image of a woman with long green hair and eyes as alluring as the depths of the sea.

But she did not stop just at that. Sending a mild disapproval at him, she asked (truly asked, in a worded and verbal fashion), "Why do you close up again, changeling-child? Do we frighten you?"

Truth be told, Harry did not know why he had returned to his usual self, no longer so carefree and… fay. (Well, if that was what the woman meant about his closing up, anyway.) The only thing he knew was that he was tired of personally meeting all these new and strange people. Even in Hogwarts and the Wizarding World in general, he had rarely interacted personally with more than ten people, the professors and students included. And they had all been familiar to him in a way! Why this sudden interest, then? These people were not even Elves, therefore without the excuse of his being a long-awaited child in all the race this side of the sea.

But a moment later, all his confusion and irritation was swept away as the temperature of the water cradling him warmed and a new environment welcomed his sight. Colourful corals and fishes formed a beautiful and somewhat other-worldly garden on the varying expanse of sand and rock underneath the waves, with some occasional visitors like young turtles and a pod of adventurous dolphins.

There was definitely some perks to having these strange beings as new friends, it seemed.

Still, Harry was not to be distracted for long, and the complacency of his holders soon unnerved him. He could not help it anyhow. Here he was: at least several feet away from open air, encircled by a weird current that had no beginning and end and that might be the replacement for fleshly embrace, and breathing bubbles by the means that he did not even comprehend; and his current keepers were holding him as if a pair of abcent-minded parents keeping half an eye on their child, drifting away in thoughts to other matters although being still there metaphysically. Now their easy-going attitude, coupled with the abundance of quiet-but-untamed power, truly impressed a mark in his mind, and he shied away from it.

Thus, when he at last touched sandy shore again an indefinite time later, Harry did not spend precious time dawdling on the tidal line. He ran away, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and the sea.

Voldemort could not match the scariness of that Island-Builder and the Bubble-Singer! On an entirely different league, of course…

Harry did not care that he did not really know the surroundings, or the fact that he was not even sure that this was where he had started the 'watery', nerve-racking escapade. But thankfully, he found signs of a settlement before long; and thus, bedraggled and penitent, he went in search of Erestor – or at least his beardy host. Erestor might be taciturn and flavoured like a lemon drop dipped in one of Snape's concoctions, but he was at least a familiar sight and an Elf to boot. Harry did feel a strange, tenuous connection to the two beings from earlier, somehow, but he was more used to being a human – and now an Elf – and now desperately needed to feel that familiarity again.

Well, his opinion changed slightly when Erestor did find him, as he stumbled along by the fish market, shivering and feeling more miserable by the moment. The Elf-man lifted him by his armpits and shook him a couple of times, a thunderous expression in those blue-grey eyes, and Harry would prefer meeting and taunting Voldemort once again to sensing the fright hidden beneath the angry façade Erestor now wore. It was unexpected, unpleasantly so for Harry who had expected his reaction to mimic maybe Aunt Petunia if not Uncle Vernon. The man-child found that he had to reevaluate his conduct towards that reluctant guardian of his so far: the guardian that now had become so real and tangible because of such a base emotion shown to him – no, _for_ him.

And finally he had to concede to himself, `_Poor Erestor._`


End file.
